


Blood On My Name

by Charly_Mae



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drama, F/M, M/M, Suspense, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:23:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3415709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charly_Mae/pseuds/Charly_Mae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Scandinavian Mafia is alive and well in the major cities of Germany. However, when faced with sabotage and a heavy sentence, Matthias has to rely on his wit and an unlikely acquaintance to find his way out from the harsh eyes of the law and eliminate a threat from the East: the Russian Mafia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to an old idea that I never really got to writing down. I tend to write about the realistics but I wanted to go outside of my usual circle and go for something a bit more action-y and maybe even suspenseful. Believe it or not, I've actually planned out the plot of the story and I am personally proud of my motivation with this project. So, without further ado, a give you a little Mafia!AU.
> 
> **One last thing, this story is also on my FF.net account. I'm simply giving AO3 a go and I thought it best for this story to be the first thing published on this site from me.**

A young man strolled around the corner of a block, making his way onto another street. Like dozens of people around him, he was dressed for the weather. The boy wore a thick, bubbly red coat and a black scarf wrapped around his neck. Gloved hands were shoved into the warm pockets of his jacket. It was nearing the end of autumn and the winter winds were beginning to pick up speed. With a shiver, the boy dug his chin further into the fleeting warmth of his scarf and walked down the street until he reached a coffee shop- Starbucks.

He entered the building, releasing a sigh of content as the heat of a thermostat warmed his toes. He stepped in a short line, ordering a cup of coffee before hearing his name.

"Matthias!"

He turned his head and laid eyes on his childhood friend, Berwald Oxenstirena. A broad smile lifted his face as he made his way to the small rounded table where Berwald sat with his own beverage.

"Ber! Glad to see you're early!" Matthias beamed, resting a brotherly arm on his friend's shoulder.

"Late as usual," Berwald scoffed, pushing up his glasses and taking a sip of coffee.

Matthias snickered, "Ever expected me to change?" Moments later, he heard his order being called out. "One sec," he grinned as he quickly grabbed his hot cup of coffee. When Mathias returned, he took the seat across from the Swede. There was a moment of silence.

"So," Matthias cleared his throat, "what have you been up to?"

Berwald shrugged, "Nothing much but savin' yer ass all weekend,"

Matthias groaned, "Oh, shut up. You know why I can't let my old man find out I've been taking some of his jobs!"

"And when he finds out, I'm denying everything,"

"As the next head of this organization, I think I should be able to do whatever the hell I want. Just because hasn't given me an official job yet doesn't mean that I'm not ready for whatever he throws at me," Matthias protested, angrily drinking his drink- resulting in a burnt tongue. Genius.

Berwald's light blue eyes gave his Danish friend a hard glare. "Your arrogance is the reason he turns you down, Matthias,"

The boy sat utterly dumbfounded for a moment. Matthias's much darker blue eyes gave the expression of a raging hurricane. His window to snarl a retort slammed shut as his message notification went off. Rolling his eyes, Matthias reached down into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Flashing on the screen was a text under the name _RATCHET GAMLE MAND._ He still chuckled out of that name. The Dane had learned the word ratchet from the son of an American colleague and he found it rather entertaining. Matthias opened the message and read: _We need to talk. Swing by the base and come by my office. I'm waiting, don't test my patience._

Matthias sighed and threw his phone back into his pocket. "Speak of the devil. Pops wants to see me right now," He stood up with his coffee in hand, "Walk with me?"

Berwald took a sip of his drink, "Got nothing better to do," The Swede rose out of his seat, " _Låt oss gå,_ "

The companions walked out of Starbucks and walked towards their destination. Matthias looked up at the sky spotted with skyscrapers and blinking antennae. The nearest of those scaling buildings was no more than five blocks away. At the top of the building, a bold title read Urd-Rikke Inc. - a Køhler family business.

"What do you think he wants?" Matthias asked, taking a sip of his coffee as they waited for the streetlight to change.

"I'm not a psychic."

Matthias rolled his eyes, "Oh, haha. Very funny,"

"I know."

A couple of minutes later, the boys arrived at the company building. They entered through rotating doors and were welcomed by the employees behind the front desk. Mathias and Berwald walked into the lobby. The flooring was a beautifully patterned mosaic complimented by soft colours, brilliant architecture, and fancy furnishings equip with a live band playing in the center of the main floor.

"I don't think I can come in with ya," Berwald muttered when they stepped into the elevator.

Mathias punched in a set of numbers to the pin code pad and pressed the topmost floor. "What? Why?"

"I wouldn't exactly be your wing man if you've been caught,"

The Dane looked personally offended, "You weren't joking?"

Berwald cocked his head to the side, "I tell jokes?"

"No, you play mind games,"

The elevator came to a stop on the highest floor and its doors slid open, leading into a spacious office with a plethora of decorations. Matthias stepped out onto the floor and knocked on a wooden bookshelf nearby. "Dad, I'm here," He walked further into the office and investigated the area to find that his father was nowhere in sight. The Dane clucked his tongue, "He tells me not to be late and the one time I'm here, he's not,"

Berwald threw his empty cup of coffee in the trash bin. "Just think of all the times you've been late to clear your conscience,"

Matthias scowled, taking his father's leather seat behind his mahogany desk. He sorted through the organized piles of paper that filled the cleared spaces on the desk surface. He noted files of important clients, contracts that needed to be carried out, lists of individuals indebted to the company's affairs, and associate information.

"Shouldn't be lookin' through those," Berwald muttered, sitting in a chair in front of Matthias.

He ignored his friend and proceeded to scan through the files. His searching came to an abrupt stop when the soft ding of the elevator door opening made Matthias scramble to his feet. A smirk grew on Berwald's face. The Dane mouthed, " _Knep dig selv._ "

When his father stepped out, he held his cellphone up to his ear, wrapping up a conversation in German. "Yes, yes. I'll see that it's taken care of immediately. _Danke,_ " He hung up and looked up at his son and Berwald who congregated around his desk. No doubt his son was snooping around yet again. "You're actually on time for once. Proud of you, son," he teased, making a language transition to Danish.

"And the one time I am, I have to wait on you," Matthias gave his father a hug. " _Hvordan går det går, gamle mand?_ "

"Business as usual," he turned his attention to the Swede who had already nodded his acknowledgements. "Oh come now, Ber. I've known you since you were a little newborn with a little tuft of hair on your head. Give me a hug, son!"

Mathias smirked and pulled Berwald into a group hug. "Welcome to the family, _bror,_ "

They broke apart and Matthias's father wasted no time getting down to business. "Now, Matthias- and you too Berwald, will be twenty-six as of June. One year closer to becoming wiser in the eyes of society. But, in this business, you aren't seen as an official member until you've received your first job," He took his place behind the desk before continuing. "As the heir to this company and legacy of the mafia, you won't be getting any simple contracting job, no. I'm bringing you along to a pickup," He pulled up a map on his desktop screen and gestured for the boys to take a look. Matthias and Berwald moved behind the desk and looked at a red mark that a warehouse just outside of Velten*. "We pick up the drugs and get out with the least amount of trouble. I doubt anyone will try and steal our shipment, but there is always a possibility,"

"A shipment? How many men are we bringing?"

"A little over a dozen- I'll have my men and three in a separate division,"

"Three?" Berwald raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, three- Matthias, yourself, and Lukas. He's one of our transfer members,"

Matthias stood back and pondered. Who was Lukas? He'd heard of the mafia getting a new family into the group but he never got the chance to meet any of them. Once again the elevator doors slid open and a boy around their age stepped out. He was about two inches shorter than Matthias and like most he was blonde and had deep navy blue eyes and a clip in the shape of a cross held his hair back. He walked up to the desk, removing his coat, "You wanted to see me, Mr. Køhler?"

 _Norwegian_ , Matthias thought, looking at the boy that was but a yard or two away from him.

"Ah, Lukas! Glad to see you could make it. I was just explaining to these two what you will be doing tonight,"

"Tonight?" Matthias roared, slamming his hands on the desk. "You never said anything about this being today, father!"

His dad raised his shoulders, "Twelve kilograms of cocaine doesn't have a precise delivery date," He took a sip of his coffee, "Sorry to burst your bubble, princess,"

"The least you could have told me was that you were expected a shipment! Instead you take me by surprise!"

"That's the point, Matthias," his father gently set his coffee mug on its place mat. "If I had informed any of you, then your first job wouldn't be as exciting now would it?"

Matthias ran a hand through his hair out of frustration, "What is this? Some kind of test?"

"Precisely," he smiled,

"Don't give me that bullshit!"

"Technically, this whole situation is a test for your abilities as head of the mafia, Matthias." His father simply rose out of his chair and moved about his office. "I have a strong feeling that you three will work together as a close knit group in the future."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I have no doubt that Berwald will keep your ego in check, but Lukas can keep my conscience clear of the fight you two break out into every chance you get,"

Matthias looked at the Norwegian and sighed heavily, "Fine. Fine, whatever you want, Pops. What time are we heading out?"

"In three hours. That should be enough time for you to get well acquainted with Lukas. Now," he called for the elevator and stepped aside for the boys to go in, "see you in a bit,

The ride down was awkward- the only sound was the uncomfortable elevator music. Berwald and Matthias leaned against one wall while Lukas did the other, looking down with his arms folded across his chest.

"So," Matthias cleared his throat, "Lukas, right? Norwegian?"

Lukas nodded, keeping his eyesight focused downward.

"Okay... Cool. Where did you transfer from?"

"Finland,"

The corner's of Matthias's lips twitched. "Cool, cool. That's pretty cool," He turned over to Berwald and muttered in Swedish, "He's not very outspoken, is he?"

Berwald shrugged, "Never really talked to him much. He talks when he wants to, I guess?"

"An introvert?"

"You think everyone is an introvert,"

The two had completely forgotten of the Norwegian's existence until they heard a dry cough from the other end of the elevator. "You know I can understand every word you're saying right?" he announced in flawless Swedish.

Both Matthias and Berwald looked like deer caught in headlights. He knows Swedish?! Mathias laughed awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck, "R-really?"

"Really,"

Berwald cleared his throat, "Er... so want to get a snack with us before we-"

"Goddammit!" Mathias shouted, frantically mashing down the top floor button as the elevator doors slid open to the lobby.

Lukas raised an eyebrow, "Are you okay?"

"I left my coffee in that old man's office!"

The boys sat inside of a pastry shop, munching on a box of sweets they bought to eat together. Matthias shoved another doughnut hole in his mouth, "Wait wait.. How many languages do you know?"

Lukas groaned, "I just told you!"

"Well I wasn't paying attention,"

"You n'ver pay attention," Berwald jutted.

Rolling his eyes, Lukas counted them off, "Norwegian, Icelandic, Swedish, Danish, Finnish, German, English, and a bit of Russian. I haven't touched up on it in a while,"

Matthias held up nine fingers, "That's nine languages!"

"I thought everyone knew at least five. Or maybe that's just my family..."

"We only know four!"

"Close, but that's your loss," Lukas popped a chocolate doughnut hole onto his tongue.

The Dane gawked until Berwald put his hand under Mathias's jaw and closed it shut. "A bug's gonna fly in yer mouth one day,"

"Okay, mother," Matthias rolled his eyes.

Berwald looked down at his watch. " 's six forty-seven. C'mon, let's go ahead and get back to the base,"

They quickly scared down the remained doughnuts and made their way out of the shop.

"Twelve kilograms..." Matthias muttered, "That's a lot of coke. Wonder how that got smuggled,"

"D'finitely not up someone's ass," Berwald zipped up his coat as a cold winter breeze brushed away some warmth.

"Doesn't matter. We pay up and we get our drugs. Simple as that," Lukas said, crossing the street when the sign gave the go-ahead. When the three reached the skyscraper, Matthias's father was already loading into a sleek, black Hummer- the signature cruising vehicle of the Urd-Rikke business. The boys crossed the street one final time and Matthias knocked on the dark tinted window on the second car of three.

"Dad, open up," The glass rolled down, revealing his father fashioning a pair of shades, "What car are we in?"

"This one," the backseat door opened, welcoming its three guests to have a seat. Matthias's father crossed his legs as the boys piled inside in the order of Berwald, Lukas and lastly Matthias. He felt slightly uncomfortable. Not only was he not beside Berwald but he was also sitting next to a kid the both of them just met a couple of hours ago.

 _I feel like this was premeditated._ And as if the Swede was telepathic, he looked at the Dane and flashed a teasing smirk seemingly telling him to deal with it. "To Velten right?" Matihias asked, resting his elbow on the plastic part of the car door.

His father nodded, "What we want is just outside of the town. We get what we need and head out,"

"What's the game plan?" Lukas asked. "Positions? Instructions?"

With a flick of the wrist, Matthias's father motioned for the driver to begin their hour's journey to Velten. He reached for a can of Coca-Cola in the cup holder, opening it with its renowned hiss. "You three will be handed a handgun. I trust you can handle a pistol," he teased taking a sip of his soda. "Now, your job is simple: patrol the area. The cocaine is basically ours but we've to pay our dues to the dealer. It's won't take long, only but a couple of minutes and then the drugs are loaded into the cars and lastly drop them off at our own warehouses for safe-keeping,"

"Then what?"

"Why you get your own jobs of course! They'll start out small but as you gain experience, things will liven up,"

Matthias turned to gaze out the window and he watched the walkers go by as the vehicle accelerated. It would be about an hour until they arrived to their destination. He thought it best to remain sharp but the soft hum of the engine helped him doze off. Minutes before the arrival, Matthias was nudged in his rib cage. His eyes opened and groggily looked over at the Norwegian beside him

"Get up. We'll be at the warehouse soon,"

The Dane nodded only to rest his head on the window and close his eyes once more. "Five more minutes,"

"You've already had three 'five minutes',"Berwald reached over Lukas and repeatedly flicked Matthias's cheek. "Wake up,"

He slapped away the Swede's hand and yawned. "Alright, alright, fine. Could've woken me up when we got there..."

"Serious situations don't mix well with post-nap grog, Matthias,"

"Aw, shaddap," he groaned, scratching his head. "The caffeine wore off and I'm still recovering from the crash,"

"Then you'd best get yourself together, kid," his father started, "Five more kilometers to go,"

When the trio of black Hummers pulled up to a maintenance storehouse, the men wasted no time hopping out of the cars and getting straight to business. The driver's popped the trunks and the men retrieved n automatic rifle from black bags. "Now remember," Matthias's father stepped out of the car, lighting himself a smoke, "patrol and stay out of trouble. Understand?" Matthias and Berwald figured that he was talking to them in particular; nonetheless, the three gave a curt Yes, sir and grabbed their own weapons.

Matthias watched as his father gave orders, holding a cigarette in between is fingers and hand casually shoved in his pocket. Without a doubt his dad looked classy and intimidating in his get up: suit, shades, cigarette and all. The facade he'd created was amazing- one moment he was a quirky father the next he was the head of the Danish mafia. He felt an elbow dig into his side and he looked up at Berwald who gestured for the Dane to get to work. Bringing himself out of his thoughts, Matthias nodded, removed the safety of his pistol and took the left side of the warehouse.

 _What a bland job,_ Matthias complained, readjusting his scarf as the wind picked up speed. He glanced down at his attire and sucked his teeth. All the other men were dressed in warm formal-wear and looked far more professional than Berwald, Lukas, and himself. Why hadn't they been given uniforms for the occasion? The Dane huffed and turned his attentions to the open, dry and empty land surrounding the warehouse. There's no one to be seen for miles. Why would the old man need to assign a patrolling unit?

Inside the building was a whole other world of business. Mathias's father puffed on his cigarette as he leaned over a table, discussing matters with the dealer. His men went through the checklist as they inspected the neat stack of cocaine cradled in plastic peanuts inside boxes that read FRAGILE. The Dane was handed a briefcase a moment later and he placed it on the metal table, popping the latches and opening the lid to unveil a supplement of euros.

"There it is," he said, tapping off the ash at the end of his cigarette, "approximately a quarter of a million in American currency,"

The dealer's eyes grew large as he gawked down at the hundreds upon hundreds of bills crammed into one space. With a grin on his face, the man closed the briefcase and held out his hand, "Always a pleasure working with you, Nathan,"

"The pleasure is mine as long as you stay loyal, my friend," he smiled, accepting the other's handshake. The two conversed a while more before the business partner's parted ways. The Dane began reciting orders his men had heard time and time again- "get these babies loaded!", "no slacking, pick up the pace!", "it's freezing out here, hurry up,". They had it all memorized as a script in a play until an unfamiliar bang was added to the soundtrack.

Nathan turned on his heel with a raised eyebrow. He reached into his suit and pulled out a revolver. "Who shot that?" he questioned with a deathly serious tone. The collective silence between his colleagues was enough of an answer to clear his conscience. "Get the drugs out of a line of fire,"

With quiet nods, the men moved the cocaine out of harm's way and immediately took cover behind the stacks of boxes. All other than Nathan. He stood in the open, leaning on his left leg. The Dane took a drag off of his shrinking cigarette and sighed, letting the smoke escape from his nostrils. "None of my men are injured," he said loudly, "It'd be foolish to think that a hostile marksman took out a good associate of mine now wouldn't I?"

There was a moment of unbearable silence until a small chuckle rose out into the still air of the warehouse. A man emerged from behind a wall with a firearm in hand and a bloody briefcase in the other. "No, I don't think that'd be foolish in the slightest," teased a voice heavily accented with Russian.

Nathan's eyes narrowed, "Winter- finally come out from retirement have you?"

The Russian smiled cynically. "I let you grow only so I could destroy the power you have, Nathan. I couldn't let you keep your glory for too long else you'd get too cocky and disregard needed positions... Things like watch duty,"

A wave of fear rushed up Nathan's spine as he near lost his suave composure, "What have you done to my son, Winter?"

The Dane's rival maintained the same mask he displayed and laughed maniacally, "I wouldn't dare lay a finger on your boy's head, nor any of his friends. Though, I wouldn't be worrying about them in your current situation," He glanced over his shoulder and found his men held at gunpoint and as he turned around to face the Russian, he was greeted with a gun barrel. "It's been a pleasure refueling the rivalry between us, dear Nathan Køhler,"

Matthias awoke to a horrible ringing in his ears. He opened his eyes, his vision was blurred and his mind spun as he tried to work his way through a state of confusion. He looked around dizzily and found his friends lying on the cold ground near him.

"Berwald," he coughed, "Lukas," Matthias struggled to push himself up as a surge of fiery pain forced him back down. He grunted, cringing, and rolling on his side as a peak of his pain subdued. Once again, Mathias made an attempt to rise off the ground but was held back by a foot that thrust the Dane's face back into the dirt.

"Ah, ah, ah! Where do you think you're going?" called a terrifyingly playful voice.

Matthias gazed up at a figure silhouetted by a bright LED light above. The sky had grown dark for daylight savings and the chill of winter was all the more unwelcoming. "Wh... who are...?"

"I am Ivan Braginski," he answered- by the sound of his voice, he was smiling. "And you're Matthias Køhler," Before the Dane could respond, Ivan continued to name the others, "The one with the glasses is Berwald Oxenstirena and the other is Lukas Bondveik," He moved over to the motionless Norwegian and twirled a single lock of hair around his index finger. " _дядя Зимняя, Uncle Winter_ says that I can take one of you home to play with for a while. I want to take all of you but he will only like me take one,"

Matthias was beyond confusion. What was this guy talking about? His name was obviously Russian yet it was so familiar... Why couldn't he figure out why the name Braginski name rang so many bells? The Dane rolled onto his stomach and proceeded to crawl over to his Swedish friend whose glasses were cracked horribly in the middle of one lens. "Ber," he whispered, giving him a shove on the shoulder. Berwald didn't budge. Matthias tried again, raising his voice and still he got nothing in response. "Dammit, Berwald, wake up!" he raised his arm to slap the Swede square across the face but Ivan grabbed his wrist and took a seat on the Dane's back, crushing him under his weight. Mathias cried out, his mouth being covered by the Russian's hand.

"I thought I told you not to move," he growled.

"Got to hell," Mathias bit down on Ivan's ring finger.

A small amount of blood blossomed out of the bite mark. Ivan smiled, licking it off as he grabbed a fistful of Matthias's blonde hair. "You don't listen to simple instructions do you? I see you must not have any manners either. I guess you'll be the one I take; I'll be sure to teach you proper etiquette and you'll be like my little pet for the day. How does that sound?"

The Dane shouted, squirmed and put up quite the fight as Ivan dragged in a position of manipulation. Ivan took Matthias into the warehouse by his hair and he rambled on and on about all of the "games" they would play together, and the more he talked, the more the Dane realized that Ivan was around his age if not younger. When they entered the building it smelled of gunpowder and blood. The scent was so overwhelming that Matthias found the strength to push away from Ivan and throw up in a cover. Ivan let him do so but as soon as he finished, he took him by the hair again and set him down by some boxes when they rounded a corner.

"Uncle!" Ivan called, "I brought my pet!"

Matthias overlooked many unfamiliar faces and, apparently, this Winter was one of them. The towering Russian walked over to the Dane and lifted his chin up by the barrel of his gun, inspecting his nephew's trophy. "Choosing the next in command to the mafia? Good choice,"

He giggled, taking the Dane's hands behind his back, and putting a zip-tie around Matthias's wrists. He pulled the end through, making sure that it was as tight as possible and smiled down at his hostage, "Just in case you think you can run away,"

Matthias did his best to focus on the current situation, but everything was moving at a fast pace and it was proving difficult for him to keep up. His vision was still going in and out of crystal and blurred but as he sat upright against the stacks of boxes he was set near, the Dane began to get a better look of his surroundings. What he saw was enough to make him regurgitate once again. Matthias had discovered the source of the putrid smell in the air: A couple of meters away was a small heap of bodies that belonged to his father's colleagues. Near the pile lay his father on his side, his back was facing Mathias and a pool of blood encircled his body, soaking his once perfect suit.

"Dad..." he croaked.

No answer.

"Dad...!" he repeated, his voice cracking.

Not even the slightest movement. Panic welled up inside him, tightening his chest and shortening his breath.

Winter looked down at the helpless Dane and showcased a sinister expression. "Oh, right, about your father: I'm afraid he's-" The man broke out into a ghastly fit of laughter as he kicked the limp body over on its side. The once glorious figure of Matthias's father was desecrated by a single bullet. The poor old man's eyes were wide open, his blue irises forever capturing his final thoughts and expressions.

"A quick death, but I honestly should have told him that you were being tortured. That would have been a much more entertaining face to see!" Winter snickered. "Now that would have been a memory I would truly cherish,"

Matthias felt hot tears rolling down his cheeks, stinging the apparent cuts he had on his face. "You monster. You murderer!"

Ivan dug his heel into the Dane's thigh. "Calling someone a monster isn't nice, you know. Insulting my family was a terrible mistake on your part," There must have been a bullet shell in Matthias's thigh because the searing pain he felt was far too much for a bruise. The Russian pushed down hard, lodging the projectile deeper into the Dane's tissues, producing further cries and tears from Matthias.

"Now, now, Ivan," Winter waved for him to move his foot, "teach the boy his lesson later." He pointed to the bags of drugs that were now in Russian possession as they were carried away. "Our message has been sent and received. Пойдем. Let's go,"

Pouting, Ivan took hold of Matthias's bonds and yanked him off to a posse of the Russian mafia's cars. He was thrown in the trunk and when the door closed, he was encased in a pocket of darkness. The air was stuffy and the scent was stifling. He didn't have the energy to kick and scream or fight. All he could do was close his eyes and wait.

Engines started and cars began to drive. Matthias counted them as they drove off in different intervals. One... Two... Three... Four... Five... And finally the sixth began to roll off on its departing route. However, Mathias heard gunshots and surprised Russian voices. The Dane was jerked backwards as the driver slammed on the brakes.

What's going on? he thought, feeling a bit frantic. More shouts and the firing of arms spouted until it suddenly came to an eerie end. Matthias waited an agonizing several moments, anticipating either his rescue or pending torture. The trunk flew open, letting the blinding LED lights flood in.

"Matthias!" panted the exhausted voice of Lukas. "Berwald, thank God, he's in here!"


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I failed to address that this fanfiction my or may not have a considerable amount of translations at the end of each chapter. This is because of the whole multilingual thing I have going on here. If possible, I will keep jumping of languages to a minimum._

**_Seven years later…_ **

The strobe lights were heavy, the beat intoxicating, and the room was scorching. Though the air conditioner was on full-blast, the dance-floor was unbelievably hot and crowded. Drunks toppled over one another failing to laugh over the DJ's blaring playlists. Couples (or maybe even strangers) were locked in passionate kisses, and the limited amount of sober minds tried their best to shy away from the chaos. This was a typical Saturday night and _BeLow_ , the centric hubbub of German nightlife. So, naturally, it was deemed the best club in Munich.

Behind a set of velvet ropes and one-way windows was the VIP section of _BeLow_ \- a place where all of Europe's top officials drank, gambled, and smoked. Here, these mainstream men and women of the continent had a bar just for the VIP members and their own special entertainment. Comedians, strippers, or musicians; whatever they'd like.

But that was the socialite half of _BeLow_. What a vast majouritydid not know whatkind of territory lurked just above their noses. It was a place of business for the Urd-Rikke company. Actually, come to think of it, this whole facility was run by aDanish establishment. The real question here is what didn't Urd-Rikke own? The name was certainly plastered all over Germany but the arms of the industry extended over many parts of Western Europe. The name was on cars, appliances, cell phones, anything. Anything and everything, whether it be owned by Urd-Rikke or sponsored by it, there was no escaping it.

And at the top of it all stood a charismatic young man named Søren Andresson, or as known to the public, Matthias Køhler.

"I don't think I made myself very clear to you," Matthias stopped circling a client and pulled the man up by his collar, "We had a deal. A very specific and simple deal. If you placed exactly one hundred and nine euros on the table for fifteen games, you'd make it big." The Dane's eyes hardened as he tightened his grip on the trembling German's button-up. "Why did you chicken out, Mauer?"

"M-my family!" the man croaked. "The gambling has taken a toll on things, like bills, you see. There's not enough food on the table and there isn't enough money to go around for my wife and children…"

Matthias nodded sympathetically, understanding the middle-aged man's plea. "I see; I see. Mind's on the family, is that it?" Mauer vigorously nodded. "Funny how quickly one's mind can change. I remember when you were nothing but agluttonous drunkard who had a gambling issue," His blue eyes scanned over the man and his nose crinkled. "Seems you are a weasel too." Matthias dropped the German back onto his metal seat, making his way over to a table by the wall. "Nothing can excuse your lack of loyalty to your contract, Mauer. Unfortunately for you, your poor life decisions have landed you ten more games."

" _Was!_  But you can't-"

"Oh, but I can," Matthias smiled innocently, "I have your contract right here. Do you remember signing this? Of course you do, as any responsible family man like you would." The Dane delicately lifted the document and looked to a highlighted article. "Article three states clearly that if the client fails to proceed as directed and or step down from his or her position, an additional five to ten games shall be placed on their quota." Matthias glared towards the shivering German. "Oh, I'm sorry, am I making you uncomfortable? Do I need to repeat myself?"

With a visible gulp, the gambler shook his head, eyes dropping. "I understand, _Herr Andersson_ ,"

The tension in Matthias' shoulders faded with a sigh of relief. "Good, good. I was afraid we'd have to take to more persuasive tactics." He shuffled over to the table and began packing up his things: folders, pencil case, contracts, money, et cetera. Once ready, Matthias looked to a soldier* who stood at attention and awaited orders. "See to it that Herr Mauer is escorted off of the premises and that he does as he's told this time."

With a nod, the unreasonably large man hoisted the German to his feet and led him to the exit.

Matthias' posture dropped as soon as he was alone. Shaking out any remaining strain off his shoulders, Matthias ran a hand through his hair and made his way down to the VIP lounge.

" _Herr Køhler_!" A German politician called out, "Come join me for a drink!"

Matthias raised his hand in decline. "A tempting offer, but if I don't get going now, I'll be late for a date,"

There was a catcall from the back. "Who's the lucky lady?"

"Oh no, no, no, gentleman. You all know very well that I don't swing that way," the Dane chuckled. "Tonight's my birthday. My friend and my partner are dining out this evening,"

"Congratulations on aging!" Drunken laughs and cheers burst throughout the room.

"Congrats on getting laid later tonight, too, right?" Another burst of laughter followed by a toast. With a smile, Matthias thanked the crowd and made his exit.

Elsewhere, Berwald and Lukas lounged on cushions placed on the floors of a Mediterranean restaurant. Bali music played and belly dancers roamed from table to table with euros and US dollars bulging from their waists.

"Another ten minutes and he'll be late," Lukas grumbled.

"He won't be late, Lukas," Berwald noted. "Never early, but never late either."

"Yeah, yeah,"

The Dane didn't show for another seven minutes. "I'm here!" he proclaimed, lips curling.

"Of course you are," Berwald clapped his friend's shoulder as he joined them, sitting criss-cross in his chair like a child. "I could see your hair over the crowd."

"Aw, you're so mean," Gone was his suit, in favor of more comfortable attire: a pair of blue jeans and a plaid button up. "Glad to know you two didn't start eating without me,"

Lukas snorted, "Oh we've already ordered. If the pizza had already been out here there wouldn't be anything left for you,"

"So considerate,"

"Don't worry," Berwald reassured, "we ordered two. There's no way you and I could share one pizza."

"I still don't know how you two can eat so much," Lukas shook his head but raised a beer bottle to the air. "Well, happy thirty-second to the both of you. For Matthias today, and Berwald tomorrow,"

The other two men followed the Norwegian's example and raised their drinks as well, all three bottles coming together in a satisfactory clink.

That was the typical life of the trio: day in and day out,they would deal with their typical business and later go out to eat if no one was too busy or tired. Over the past couple of years, Matthias had made many improvements to Urd-Rikke. The mafia-run company was mainly industrial: it controlled a wide variety of businesses having to do with construction, accounting, entertainment, and convenience goods. Really just about anything you can imagine. Urd-Rikke no longer took part in underground transactions of drugs. That had been taken over by the Russians, an opposing gang under the name FuseNett.

As far as Matthias was concerned, the night was a fantastic reason to drink to his heart's content. Between the pizza and birthday cake, he indulged in a bottle or two of beer. The night rolled on and Matthias felt like he could party all evening. A shame Lukas wouldn't let him. The Norwegian ended up with the task of dragging the Dane home. Per usual.

Stumbling up the stairs, Matthias sang loudly enough to be heard within a thirty kilometer radius. An irritated Lukas following behind.

" _Det hedder gamle DANMARK, og det er Frejas sal!_ " He giggled, flopping face down onto the bed. There was a pause. " _Det er et yndigt land, det står med brede bøge_..."

Lukas shook his head, tuning out the Dane's horrid pitches and worked on getting him undressed. "Stop squirming, idiot. Take off your belt."

"Or, you could take it off for me," Matthias chimed. "Not like you haven't done it before- Ow! Hey that hurts!"

The Norwegian ignored the Dane's whining and tugged on his ear again so he was sitting up straight. He removed his shirt and his belt as quickly as one could off of a squirming idiot, then let Matthias fall back into his previous position. "There, now you won't hurt yourself."

"Hurt myself? Yeah right! I'm invincible!" He cried out again when Lukas gave him a tug on the ear. With a pout, he flipped over and stared at the Norwegian as he dug through the dresser. "Are you coming to bed?"

Lukas glanced over his shoulder and nodded, slipping out of his button-up. "In a second," When he was dressed, he crawled underneath the covers in his usual position beside Matthias.

"Yayy!" Matthias smiled, pressing his lips against Lukas' forehead.

Lukas kissed the Dane's collarbone and folded into his arms. "Go to sleep, Matt," he said, closing his eyes.

"But-"

"Good night,"

When morning came, Matthias battled a hangover. Honestly, one would think that a man who drinks as much as he did would be accustomed to the migraines at this point, but Matthias is special in many ways. Forcing himself out of bed, he shuffled into the bathroom and began the morning routine: take a leak, brush teeth, hop in the shower, shave, so on and so forth. A light scent of bacon and coffee filled the air once Matthias stepped out of a steamy bathroom, face smooth and gym-shorts glad.

Trudging downstairs, Matthias sat down on a stoop by the kitchen counter, placing his elbows on the marble and dropping his face in his palms.

"I'm surprised your liver has held out as long as it has," Lukas japed, sliding a cup of tea and a plate of breakfast towards him. "Don't glare.Eat”

Matthias rolled his eyes, raising the mug to his lips. "Yes, mama,"

After fixing his own plate, Lukas took a seat by Matthias. They ate in silence other than the occasional exchange of seasoning or refills of coffee or tea.

"Hey," Lukas turned to his partner. "Forgetting something?"

"I don't think so," Matthias replied as the Norwegian took the empty plates and placed them in the sink.

"You have a meeting today."

"Great... What time?"

"An hour from now."

"I'm going to have grey hairs early because of you," the Dane grumbled, pushing himself off the stool.

As he moved past him, Lukas gave Matthias a peck on the cheek, and as an afterthought, a quick kiss. "Your fault, not mine."

A big goofy grin spread across Matthias' face. "Morning routine completed."

"Get dressed."

"Don't have to tell me twice."

Once smartly dressed, the Dane waltzed into the garage which showcased a variety of impossibly expensive sports cars. Some were of the cutting edge technology and others were fixed up antiques from the last century. A wonderful spectacle from old to new. Matthias' ride of choice today was a red 1964 Cadillac. 

"Time for work," Taking his place behind the wheel, Matthias let down its convertible top, slapped on some shades and pulled out into the driveway.

...

Press conferences were never really special, this one included. Matthias mainly explained new affairs with other companies and how Urd-Rikke would continue to grow. Afterwards, Matthias had some other matter to take care of. Without a doubt there would be some other lost cause client who would need straightening out, but for now, the Dane was stuck in the office.

Reclining in the leather armchair behind a mahogany desk, Matthias hit the power button on his desktop and stared down a monstrous stack of papers in front of him. He groaned.

"Here's your caffeine," Matthias peeled his eyes away from his pile of nightmares to see Lukas place a mug of coffee on a coaster next to his keyboard.

"Thanks." he mumbled, bringing the mug to his lips. "Any news worth sharing?"

Lukas hopped up on the desk, crossing his legs. "Depends. What kind of news are you asking for?"

"Politics, sports, foreign affairs- anything really. And if you have anything on the Russians that'd be great too."

Matthias' secretary thought for a moment. "The Russians haven't been doing much to bother us lately. Not directly, anyways. You know how they are; the actual mafia moves around in separate herds. They govern themselves while maintaining the regulations of FuseNet. Recently, a group ganged up on some of our boys while they were out to collect money from the factories in Dresden. Things got a little messy but we took care of it."

"They've been attacking us a lot more often, haven't they?" Matthias asked, taking another sip.

Lukas nodded. "Probably wanting to do some damage, but they've hardly managed so much as a scratch."

"Good, good. Hey, do you think Berwald will stop by today? Or is he doing field work?"

"He's cleaning up whatever mess was left from the fight, and anything else that was left over that exposes the interior of Urd-Rikke. I doubt he'll be able to make a pit stop by lunch."

Matthias pouted. "Damn, and I was really looking forward to slacking off for a while this afternoon."

"That's not an option," Lukas stated, pushing himself off the desk. "I know you see that stack of papers. If you get started now you could be halfway done by lunch."

"You're no fun."

"Being fun isn't in my job description. Get to work."

"No promises." Matthias watched Lukas close the door behind him before cracking his knuckles, whipping out a pen, and sliding closer to the desk.

The day dragged on longer than it should have, especially since the Dane had to juggle much of his schedule. Private meeting here, business calls there, and in between was a pile of death that lie barely touched at the corner of his placemat. Matthias barely had enough time to lounge around. Perhaps this was just one of the many consequences of being the head of a mafia-run company: He was only twenty-three after all. Most people his age would just be graduating from college. As more time slugged by, Matthias had cleared about half of the paperwork and what was finished lied in a neat and ordered stack in the opposite end of the desk. It was four fifty-seven and it was about time the Dane took a well-deserved mental break. Matthias took refuge on a couch on the other side of his office. He propped his feet up on the coffee table and pulled his laptop onto his lap.

There came a timid knock on the door. "Sir, um, Mister Bondevik told me to bring you your coffee. May I come in?"

"Coffee? You certainly may." Matthias waved a boy inside. He was Lukas' new intern, a cherubic man of twenty-one years. "Ah, thank you, Eron." he murmured, lifting the mug to his lips.

"You're welcome, Mister Køhler." Eron promptly left the office and returned to his spot beside Lukas' desk and started typing away. He had some emails to send out for Lukas and Eron had plans to get it done as soon as he could. About ten minutes went by and the boy had barely even cracked the surface of his work before glancing up to see a man in a navy blue suit walking towards the CEO's office. (This sentence is a little long. I think you might be able to cut it in two.) "Um, e-excuse me, sir, you can't go in there!" Eron called out just as the man moved past his desk. He had on a scarf. How odd to have such an accessory in the dead of summer. It seemed that the poor kid's voice wasn't heard over the man's loud, quick stride. "Sir," Eron started again, raising his voice, "if you don't stop I'll have to call security!"

This time, the scarfed man stopped, turning around to give the intern an unsettling grin. "Oh pardon me. Seems I've forgotten to make an appointment yet again. Remind me to schedule one next time, won't you?" A Russian accent. Could it be...? But it was too late for Eron to ask; the man already disappeared into the Dane's office. " _Privyet_ ,  _Søren_." 

Of course, right as Matthias was just starting to get comfy. He looked up tiredly to find Ivan Braginski, the CEO of FuseNet. "Last I checked I had no appointments from five to six forty-five." he remarked, turning his attentions back to his computer screen. "To what do I owe this surprise visit from the man himself?"

Ivan examined Matthias' office, running a finger over one object every now and then. "You need to dust in here." he commented, picking up an apple from the fruit bowl on the coffee table. "I'm just here to talk, Matthias-"

"Hopefully not about cleaning my office," A hollow joke. Matthias set his laptop aside and made eye contact with the Russian, who was now seated in a love seat across from him. "I'm surprised my security hasn't booted your ass out of the building yet. Surely Eron must have called them by now. You're trespassing, Braginski. I could press charges if I wanted to."

The Russian chortled. "Oh, I think your boys will be on a bit of a delay. Some of my men are jamming the elevators."

"How messy. You just want to slow me down, don't you?"

"Probably."

"Funny. What do you want?"

Ivan observed the room once again and settled on Matthias. "I want Urd-Rikke."

Now that was unexpected- this was a sit-down. Matthias cocked an eyebrow and leaned forward. "You want to buy out the Køhler name?"

"Precisely."

The Dane threw his head back with a snort. "You're kidding, right? Have those drugs gotten to your head?"

Ivan shook his head. "No, I'm quite sober. But I'd love to get rid of your competition. Your runts are giving my men far too much trouble and I'd like to get you off my bad side. That, and Urd-Rikke is everywhere, purchasing your name would give FuseNet everything it needs to become an industrial empire."

"Okay, Braginski, I'm gonna stop you right there." Matthias waved his hands and rose from the couch. "I'm sure you've prepared your monologue countless times in front of a mirror, but I don't want to hear it. It's only going to put me to sleep, so do yourself a favourand save your breath."

Ivan pouted. "It's not very polite to interrupt someone when they're talking, Mister Køhler."

"And it's not very polite to barge in unannounced, Mister Braginski."As if on cue, the building's security filed into the office standing at attention. The Dane pointed towards the uninvited guest. "See to it that this man is taken off the premises."

"Aw, and I was hoping I'd be able to stay a bit longer. I wanted to take a little tour of my new office building." The Russian began marching out of the room and he glanced over his shoulder at Matthias. "So sorry we couldn't come to any kind of agreement.I know that you'll regret it soon."

Matthias gestured for the men to lead Ivan out and just as they were leaving Berwald walked in with confused look. "Why was Ivan here? Did I miss something?"

The Dane shook his head. “You missed nothing but a lunatic’s raving,”

…

It had been a few days since the Dane's encounter with Ivan. In fact, he hadn't given the visit a thought since the Russian left his office. Matthias sat focused on a woman with yellowed teeth, wiry raven black hair, and a crooked nose.

"I'll ask you one last time," he started, gritting his teeth. "Tell me where you're stashing the cash. I know you've been taking from our reserves for some time, Miss Ravn. There's no sense in hiding it now."

The woman's lower lip quivered as she vigorously shook her head, exclaiming excuses such as "I didn't do it", "it wasn't me", "I don't know what you're talking about."  
Matthias drug a hand down his face, resting his hand just below the top of his lip. Honestly, why was this life glorified? There was absolutely nothing fantastic about running a mafia, especially when a majority of the clients were just like the shaking woman in front of him.

"Miss Ravn," Matthias rose out of the chair due to his growing impatience, "You must know what this business means to me. I love my job, I really do. And, because of this love, my job is very difficult. I need money to pay my employees as equally as possible, I need to be able to pay my dues to the government, and there are charities that need donations- the list goes on and on. But how am I to do this when people like yourself—" Matthias tapped on the woman's forehead, "continuously steal from my company?" Ravn was trembling, her eyes darting from one side to another; a bead of sweat rolled down her temple, and she had resulted to biting her lips. A sly smirk spread across Matthias' lips. The Dane stood with his heels together and his hands behind his back. "I give you credit for somehow being able to hack into one of the banking accounts but that's not the issue here. Miss Ravn, please, just tell me where you've hidden the money and you will get off easy."

After another bout of denials and even a wave of tears, Matthias finally got the information he needed out of her. "Thank you very much for your cooperation, Miss Ravn." The Dane grinned politely, stepping aside as a pair of his mob men walked inside.

"I get to go now, right?" Ravn sputtered, "Nothing's gonna happen to me, right?"

Matthias blinked blankly, cocking his head to the side. "Huh? What are you going on about?"

Ravn gulped. "You said th-that if I told you where the money was you'd let me go."

"Oh, but you misheard me, Miss Ravn." Matthias started, "I said that'd I'd let you off easy, but I can't just simply have a criminal running around the streets, free to do as she pleases with the earnings of others."

The woman's lip quivered. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Matthias responded with only a smile as he turned to his men. "Alright boys, I'm leaving this up to you. Just be sure to clean up if things get messy."

"Yessir,"

The Dane didn't give so much as a second glance as he strode out of the interrogation room. He pulled up his sleeve to check his watch which read 2:21. Not too shabby, looks like he'd have some time to stop by a café and grab a mocha before heading back to the office.

...

There was an unusual bustle going on when Matthias arrived at the company building. Voices deep in debate halls and camera flashes reflected off the walls creating a rather uneasy atmosphere.

"Herr Andersson," called one of the ladies at the front desk, "Lukas would like to have a word with you."

Matthias cocked an eyebrow, taking a leisurely sip of coffee. "What of? Am I in trouble?"

"You see the press as much as I do," she remarked.

"Fair enough," The Dane went off on his way, jumping into an elevator just before its doors closed. Once he reached his office, Matthias found Lukas and Berwald standing around his desk.

Lukas looked up from the desktop screen and waved his lover over. "Have you checked the news lately?"

Matthias shook his head, joining the others and propping his arm on the back of his armchair. "Not recently. Why?" Lukas gestured towards the screen and sat back, folding his arms across his chest.

His eyes immediately noticed the bold headline which read  **Urd-Rikke Accused of** **Embezzlement.** As he skimmed through the article, he recognized some of the listed names- all of which were stationed in certain places all around Europe. Others were German, Polish, or French, but most of which were definitely under the influence of the mafia. "And where exactly did this come from?" Matthias asked finally. "It isn't a big name... Independent journalist?"

"It's a minor printing company," Berwald mentioned. "I did a little digging on the subject and it turns out that business is owned by the Russians themselves,"

Matthias snorted. "Then why is this an issue? All we gotta do is sue FuseNet for its accusation and ride it off as slander."

"Well we haven't been prosecuted for anything yet," Lukas pointed out, glancing down at his watch and handing Matthias a few sheets of paper. "I scribbled down some notes for you since you'll be going into this so suddenly. Read them on the way down,"

The Dane only had so long to process that before he finally got the message. "Press conference... That explains the commotion in the lobby."

"There isn't any solid evidence to prove the claims, so, for now, do what you do best- bullshit." Berwald clapped his friend on the shoulder before he went off.

Once Matthias left the office floor, getting around the building was an absolute nightmare. The bustle in the building was not of the kind Matthias was used to, and it led to the slightest of irritation. His cool demeanour was waning into frustration as he refrained from shouting his way through the masses of people crowded around cubicles and gathered in varied spaces around every corner of every floor.  As Matthias finally reached the lobby floor, two of his mob men rallied up at his sides and escorted him the rest of the way to the press room.

Before his entry, the ones attending the press conference—the paparazzi, journalists, and news reporters—were engaged in civilized conversation. However, as soon as he set foot in the room the camera flashes began to pick up and the chatter quickly grew into shouting.

“ _Herr Andersson! Herr Andersson!_ What are you to do with such an accusation?”

“Is it true, have you been stealing from the companies of Europe?”

“Are there any words you have to say to the author of the article? Whomever he or she may be?”

Questions were thrown at Matthias from every direction as he approached the podium in the middle of the room. Straightening his tie and clearing his throat, Matthias raised the mic up slightly before speaking.

“I would like to start this conference by saying that the accusation of embezzling are complete and utter lies published without any evidence to support the claims.” It had only been moments since Matthias commenced the meeting and the room was already silent save the clicks of cameras and the hum of the air conditioning. A familiar air of confidence and arrogance emitted from Matthias’ very being as he spoke. If there was anything Berwald was right about, it was that he was the master of bullshitting—or, if you want to be politically correct, debate. Those sapphire eyes of his scanned through the crowd, taking note of the journalists jotting down his words. No doubt that some would twist his words, but there would be repercussions for their failure to maintain authenticity.

“If the claims were in fact true then not only would the _Spiegel_ be all over the case, but the rest of Eastern Europe as well. However, if there is anything I can be liable for, I shall confess to collecting my profits from the companies I own.”

A hand shot up from the crowd and Matthias gave him the go ahead. Rising from his seat, the man said, “So, _Herr_ Køhler, what do you have to say to the newspaper it was published in? Do you plan to sue?”

Matthias shook his head. “Not at all. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone such as my rival Ivan Braginski hired a high schooler to write this article.” The room rumbled with a soft chuckle. “However, if something such as this is ever to happen again, I will make the proper legal actions are taken.”

It only took twenty minutes for the entire ordeal to be shot down and vanquished from the minds of those who attended the meeting, and merely a couple of hours for the rest of the European public.

Nonetheless, Matthias was still left with mountains of desk work. Because of the brouhaha overtaking the entire building, emails, phone calls, and meetings were backed up for about two days and the Dane couldn’t be any more devastated. For the rest of the afternoon into the evening, Matthias worked diligently to complete a good bit of his deskwork. He’d left the duties of re-scheduling appointments to Lukas, as was his job as his secretary. But now he was in desperate need of a distraction.

Nearly a quarter past ten and Matthias was still slaving away; however he had moved from his desk to the couch. His tie lay strewn on the arm of the couch, his shoes underneath the armchair, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, and his jacket draped on the back of the sofa. With an almost fifteen hour work day, the Dane set aside some paperwork and pulled his laptop onto his thighs to answer some emails.

There was a knock at the door and Lukas filed in immediately after with a cup of coffee in his hand. “You know you can do this work at home,” he stated, setting the beverage on the coffee table. “There’s no use in you toiling over work like that here,”

“I know that,” Matthias sighed, dragging a hand down his face and reaching for a sip of coffee. “I’d just rather not have the stress tomorrow.”

Lukas responded with a nod and straddled his partner. The Dane lazily wrapped an arm around Lukas’s waist in response, a smile playing on his lips.

“Can’t get any work done like this though,” Matthias teased.

Lukas shrugged, kissing his cheek. “You could use a break,”

Matthias hummed, wrapping the other arm around his lover. “I thought you said this wasn’t included in your contract.”

“Oh shut up,”

The Dane chuckled, kissing Lukas’ forehead gently. The pair laid in that position for a few minutes exchanging kisses and tales of their day. It wasn’t often Matthias and Lukas had such moments like this at work. At home, Lukas would open up with the ease only capable with knowing someone for years, yet in public they barely showed affection outside of hand holding and the occasional kiss on the cheek. It was a lovely moment gone too soon.

“Mister Bondevik, there’s a pack—oh… Um, if I’m interrupting something, I’ll just, er, go…” It was Eron. Poor kid turned the brightest shade of pink.

“It’s all right, Eron,” Lukas reassured, pushing himself off of Matthias with a slight sigh. “Your shift ended a while ago. Why haven’t you gone home?”

Eron’s cheeks only got brighter. “That’s, that’s not important. Sir,” he uttered to Matthias, looking over Lukas’ shoulder, “there’s a package for you waiting in the lobby.”

The Dane cocked an eyebrow, “Is that so? At this hour? Who’s the sender?”

The boy shrugged. “It doesn’t say,”

Anonymity—an immediate red light. “Lukas,” the Norwegian glanced over to Matthias, “go find Ber and the two of you can investigate.”

Now Lukas raised an eyebrow. Matthias knew better than to even consider such a delivery, but he complied regardless. “Get your work done while you wait,” Lukas ordered, fixing his collar.

“But aren’t you the one who said I could use a break?” A smirk grew on his lips as a scowl rose on Lukas’ before he and Eron walked out of his office. Reclining back in the couch, Matthias closed his eyes and drifted off awaiting Lukas’ return.

~

 _I hate messy jobs,_ Eron thought as he lay Lukas against the wall. He’d expected the Norwegian to put up more of a fight before chloroforming him but it was no matter. Whatever made this night easier.

Working undercover for as long as he had been, Eron had memorized the shift hours and patrol areas of the Danish-run company. About now there would be a change in shifts. He would only have a few minutes to complete his mission before eyes were on the surveillance cameras again. Eron slipped behind Lukas’ desk and pulled open the first drawer. Lifting up the false bottom revealed a pistol and a box of ammo. He picked up the weapon and after checking the clip, took the gun off safety and moved towards Matthias’ office.

Eron was in the dark as for reasons for ending the man’s life so quickly, but that wasn’t any of his business from the start. This mission was as simple as any other: terminate the target.

Cocking the gun, Eron slowly pushed the door of Matthias’ office open and slipped inside. The Dane lay with his hands behind his head snoring softly.

“Perfect,” The boy tiptoed over to his side and pointed the end of the barrel at Matthias’ temple. His index finger rose to the trigger and just as he did so the snoring stopped. Eron’s heart stopped and the gun moved away from his head. A million scenarios occupied Eron’s thought process. What if Matthias were to wake up? It would surely be the end of his free days. Sure, he had the upper hand in this situation—he was the one with the weapon after all—but underneath Matthias was a legion of mobsters who wouldn’t hesitate to avenge their dead boss. He dropped his gaze down to the end of the barrel for far too long, but he couldn’t seem to out his focus back on the target.

Needless to say, Eron was snapped out of his daze when the Dane’s snoring picked up once again. The boy exhaled silently, putting the barrel up to Matthias’ temple once again.

A gun cocked behind him. “Drop it,” A deep voice, heavily accented.

“Shit,”

“Drop the gun, now,” This time it was louder and Eron felt a barrel pressing up again his back.

With a sigh, he let the gun fall to the floor and he turned around to greet a tall, stoic blond with piercing blue eyes. “Hello, Ber,”

There wasn’t a response. Berwald grabbed the boy by his wrists and cuffed him. “Sloppy as always,”

“You’ve only just met me.” Eron pointed out as he was forced into a chair.

“You’ve been here for months.”

“Doesn’t mean you know me.”

Berwald paused, reaching down to grab the pistol the boy had dropped and removed the magazine. Once that was done, he turned his attention back to Eron. “You’re right, I don’t know you, _Eron_.” Most likely a fake name, from Berwald’s experience.

An unreadable expression rose onto “Eron’s” face, and a small smile grew on his lips.

The Swede narrowed his eyes and dragged Matthias off the couch and he fell with a thud. “Get up, idiot.”

“ _Ex-fucking-cuse you_?!” Matthias groaned, rubbing the shoulder that broke his fall. “Why the _hell_ did you—oh…” Grog that clouded his eyes cleared to show his friend pointing to the secretary’s assistant cuffed and lounging in a chair. “Well… Hello there, Eron,”

“Go get your boyfriend. He’s knocked out in the hall,” Berwald instructed, cracking his knuckles before looking over to “Eron”. “So, your real name?”

Eron cocked an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t happen to know a thing or two about confidentiality, would you?” Berwald’s glare intensified and the boy could only sigh.

“Fine… Tino. My name is Tino.”

“Well then Tino, as soon as we’re able, we’ll be having a few words with you.” Matthias announced, dusting himself off. “Ber, take him down to the basement. I assume you won’t need any extra help.”

“Not at all,” Berwald hoisted Tino onto his feet and led him out of the office.

Matthias watched them go until they turned the corner and sighed heavily, running his fingers through his hair. “And to think this night couldn’t get any longer.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __  
> **Translations:**  
>   
> 
> _Was = What_
> 
>  
> 
> _Herr = Mister_
> 
>  
> 
> _Privyet = Hi/Hello_
> 
>  
> 
> _*Also, I mentioned a soldier somewhere in the beginning of the chapter. I watched a whole documentary on the mob and there was a whole graph of power and placement. The order from top-to-bottom go as: Boss - under boss - copregimes (x3) - soldiers. Basically, soldiers are kind like Steve Rogers before his procedure. There's also a position that is rather high up and is almost level with the boss himself and that is the consigliere, the adviser/counselor to the boss. However, Matthias doesn't need one, he has Berwald and Lukas to straighten him out._
> 
>  
> 
> _A big thanks to my editors Daila and LePetitPapillion! Without you, I literally don't know where this story would be with my poor grammar skills._
> 
>  
> 
> _See you next chapter...!_


	3. Chapter 3

"Try and find me a nice, warm spot would you, Ber?" Tino cooed as he was shoved out of the elevator and escorted down further to the lowest reaches of the Urd-Rikke company building. Tino glanced around casually observing his surroundings. A handful of guards rushed from their posts into the elevator—probably to check on Princess Dane. Save those select few, every possible hallway had some kind of security leaving Tino without an escape. For the first time in his career, he wouldn't be able weasel his way out unscathed. The boy was hoping for an easy way out, however, under the jurisdiction of the Danish mafia, those chances were unlikely.

Tino was so deep into his ponderings he hadn't even realized the Swede's lack of response. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face Berwald with a pout. "I asked you a question, ya know…"

Brilliant blue eyes cast a cold gaze down at Tino who only proceeded to stick out his bottom lip. He grabbed hold of his narrow shoulders and flipped him back in the direction they were headed initially. "Keep walkin',"

Lukas, now resting on Matthias' couch, massaged his temples and groaned softly. "Of all things he could have used, it had to be chloroform…" he complained. "I would have preferred a butt to the head. Would've hurt less."

"I'd rather it be chloroform opposed to whatever else he could have done." Matthias said, handing his partner some painkillers and a cup of water. "Get some rest; I'll be back once this drama is all cleared up."

Lukas nodded after popping two pills and washing them down with water. "I expect a full, detailed report of the session."

"Can do," Matthias ruffled his sandy brown hair before heading down to the basement. During the journey down to the underground levels of the building, Matthias reflected on the subject of this Eron figure. Or _Tino_ as he was actually called. He was no doubt a hit man but the real question remained unanswered for the time being: was he bound to a contract or was he one of the Russians? By the time Berwald was in his sights Matthias had already formulated his game plan.

"Ready to go?" he asked, cracking his knuckles.

"Well I have been waiting on you,"

"Always one for sarcasm, aren't ya?" Matthias rolled his eyes before stepping into the interrogation booth. "Record this, would you?" he instructed once his Swedish friend was manned the controls. Receiving a nod of conferment, Matthias strode into the concrete cell of a room, greeting Tino with a grin.

"Good evening, Ero—I mean Tino," he said, taking a seat across the table from the boy. "It's going to take me a while to get used to that name. Wish you could've been more honest with me,"

"You and I both know that there is only so much I'm obligated to tell you. However, when plotting to murder someone, it's not the smartest idea to tell the target your true name." Although Tino's lips returned Matthias' smiling gesture, he knew better than to be caught in that illusion of safety. This man was dangerous whether he looked the part or not, and he wasn't dumb enough to test the boundaries. "I hope you don't forget my name too often, it's rather important."

"But not important enough for me to know your real name after half a year?" Matthais questioned. The Dane almost chuckled at the slight falter in the boy's attitude. Tino might act all tough but he was an open book. "Lies can hurt, ya know? I thought we were going to be good friends, you and I, but you worked under an alias and the cute little desk boy I thought I knew tried to kill a man in his sleep," His lower lips stuck out like child's. "That wasn't very nice of you, Tino."

Tino's brow furrowed and his violet eyes stared into Matthias' sapphire ones. What was he getting at? Did he think this was some kind of game? A theatrical performance? He tried to read his expressions but it was utterly impossible. Everything about Matthias confused him: the way he talked, the way he acted; his body language compared to his eyes; and most of all that goddamn façade of his was the most perplexing of them all.

"What do you want from me, Køhler?" he asked finally.

"The answer to that is simple," Matthias propped his elbows on the table, "I want to know about _you,_ Tino Whatever-Your-Surname-Is. Oh, you look upset. Did I say something wrong?"

Now Tino was truly lost. "Why?"

"' _Why?'"_ Matthias repeated, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. "Plotting to kill a man isn't exactly a petty crime, Tino. Especially plotting to kill a man such as myself. I don't think you plan on having a short life,"

Ah, there was the threat. Amazing how Matthias kept the same tone even when intimidating the prisoner. "My name is Tino Väinämöinen. I am twenty-eight years old and I was born and raised in Helsinki."

Matthias waited for a moment, leaning on his arm as he waited for more. However, upon realizing that was all the backstory he would be getting his bottom lip jutted out again. "Awh, that's it! How cruel could you be, Tino?"

The boy shrugged. "At least I'm not lying to you anymore,"

The mask the Dane had been wearing from the moment he stepped into this room all but disappeared. Obnoxiously loud laughter bounced off the concrete as Matthias clutched his sides. "I like you, kid," he said finally, a snicker or two lingering. "That friendship of ours might just be saved."

A weak grin moved Tino's face before the room fell to silence. It didn't last long.

"There are some matters I would like to discuss with you, Tino," Matthias cleared his throat. "I believe you could be a valuable asset." His gaze met Tino's, his light-hearted tone gone stern. "Although poorly executed, how long did it take for you to devise the plan to kill me?"

Tino bit his lip as he took a moment to think on it. "Maybe about two months to figure out your daily routine. I spent over ninety hours memorizing the patrol schedule thanks to a certain someone," Tino threw a suggestive glance over to the black glass to his left, a one way window. He couldn't see it but he knew a certain Swede was ready to burst. "Altogether about four or five months, everything after that was just waiting for the right moment."

" _The right moment,_ hmm?" Matthias raised an eyebrow, following Tino's gaze to the window. "I wonder how he learned the schedule… Anyways, Tino," he motioned for the boy's attention, "your looks are rather deceiving. People wouldn't suspect you of anything because of that cute face of yours. I would like to put that to good use. I believe your spy work is more impressive than your murdering skills, so I'm going to strike a deal with you." Matthias paused for a moment letting that bit register before continuing. "I need for you to get me any and all whereabouts concerning the man that hired you, Ivan Braginski. Bank transactions, mob interactions, clients, pick-up and drop-off locations, and things of the sort.

Tino's brow furrowed once again. "That's an awful lot of information, Køhler, an awful lot of _dangerous_ information. Do you know what could happen to me if I get caught?"

"In full detail, yes," Matthias confirmed. "But I believe you can do it,"

The boy sat back for a moment, arms folded across his chest. "How will you know that I won't just run back to the Ruski and tell him your little plan? There'd better be something in it for me if you want me to keep my mouth shut."

"' _What's in it for me'_ he says," Matthias chortled. "You won't get a bullet lodged in your temple,"

Tino cursed under his breath. He should have expected no more than getting away with his life.

Matthias waited a moment before rising out of his seat, stretching his arms over his head. "Then I guess we're done for the night. We'll finish discussing terms in the morning."

Tino nodded, looking to the window. "Ber, could you be a doll and uncuff me now?"

"Oh!" Matthias piped up. "Speaking of which, Ber, you have a new roommate!"

The Swede opened the door calmly. "I beg your pardon?"

"Can't have this one going around alone. I figure you're the best one to watch over him,"

"Please tell me you're joking,"

"I wish I was. The look on your face would be amazing."

Berwald glared down at his idiot of a friend before letting out a deep sigh. "Fine, whatever."

" _Hvor vidunderligt!"_ Matthias grinned, turning his gaze down at his watch: 23:48. "Man, oh, man is it late. I'm afraid you'll have to spend the night in here, Tino. We have no other place to put you, but this should be suffice just this once. G'night, kid." Matthias made his exit, leaving Berwald and Tino alone.

"So," Tino coughed, "are you gonna uncuff me?"

Berwald's eyes narrowed, staring at the hitman across the room. "Not in the mood for jokes."

A smirk curled the corner of Tino's lips as he placed his hands behind his head. "It's your fault; you didn't think to pat me down." Without so much as a word, the Swede shut the lights off and left the room.

The following morning, the trio lounged around in the outside seating area of a café.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Matthias?" Lukas asked, taking a sip of a mocha. "He can't be trusted with such information. He did try to kill you."

"Emphasis on _try_ , darling," Matthias pointed out.

"Not to mention he's been spying on the facility for months," Berwald added. "I'm having to completely reorganize our security system thanks to his prodding."

"That sounds like a you problem—Ouch! Lukas, what's your issue?"

"Save the asshole attitude for later. There are more important things to deal with,"

Matthias bit the inside of his cheek before straightening his back.

Lukas nodded his approval before continuing, "Since he's staying with Berwald, what makes you think that he won't just re-learn the system and send a report off to Ivan? Just by keeping him alive you're taking too many risks, Matthias."

The Dane shrugged, taking a bite out of a bagel. "You're probably right. But what's life without a little danger?"

"It doesn't work that way."

"Now, Ber, I trust that you can keep a level head with Tino? Scratch that, _think_ with the right head, will you?" A smug look painted Matthias' face as Berwald's wrinkled with discontent. "Hey, you could probably still fuck him, just make sure he doesn't cut your dick off— _Ow!_ Okay, geez, I'll stop!" Matthias stood and rubbed the back of his head, the throbbing worsening by the second. "Anyways, we need to finish business with Tino. Not only that but I still have to print his contract."

"Why didn't you do that last night?" Berwald asked, tossing away the group's trash.

"It was already pretty late by the time I finished. I'm actually not done with it yet."

"What?" said Lukas and Berwald in unison.

Matthias waved away their worries. "Relax, it's not like I haven't worked on it at all. I just forgot to format. I'll do it once we get back to the office; once that's done he'll sign the contract, and we'll begin our journey to eliminating the Russians. C'mon, let's go."

Confined in the off-grid levels of Urd-Rikke, Tino lay sprawled out on cold concrete, drumming his fingers along the leg of the table and mumbling empty words: a habit of his when confronted with silence.

His peace was suspended when the door swung open and a voice hollered, " _God morgon,_ Tino—Where are you?" The Dane's brow furrowed until he found the boy on the floor. "Ah, there you are. Get up, take a seat. We have a few more things to go over and then you're free to go—under limitations of course."

With a groan, Tino pushed himself off the floor and pulled himself into a chair.

"How's your back feeling?" Matthias asked, Lukas walking in behind him. "I imagine sleeping on this floor was terrible. That's if you got any rest at all,"

"Coulda been better," Tino yawned, pushing back his bangs. "It was either the floor or a metal table,"

Matthias nodded understandingly. "Lucky for you, this is your only night down here. Once you sign this contract," Lukas set a manila folder in front of Tino, "you'll be working for us, and I assure you we treat our employees equally."

Tino eyed the man curiously, taking the folder in hand. "I didn't think you would be so old fashioned as to use contracts,"

"I'm a businessmen as well as the leader of the Danish mafia: I like to keep it classy."

"Then I assume I sign at the end? As is the normal deal with contracts?" Tino flipped to the signature page of the document.

"Not so fast," Matthias injected, tugging the paper from the Fin's hands. He grabbed a fist full of Tino's hair and pulled him up to his level. "I know that I've been pretty lax with this entire ordeal, but remember this, boy," Matthias' tongue was bitter and his eyes pierced like daggers, "if you think crossing me is agood idea, you'd better rethink your life values. Sell me out or anyone in this room, this company, this family… I will kill you. No amount of blood spilled or media coverage will keep me from doing so. Are we on the same page?"

The hairs on Tino's neck stood on edge and a chill rode down his spine; his throat dry and his stomach churned anxiously. Although light-hearted and seemingly reckless, Matthias' appearance was staggeringly deceiving—a dangerous man indeed.

"Understood," Tino gulped.

And with one word, the tension in the atmosphere all but vanished. "Signature at the bottom of the last page," Matthias said, handing Tino a pen. After putting his name to paper, Matthias took the document and handed it to Lukas. "I look forward to doing business with you, Tino. You're in the hands of Berwald now—although I'm sure it's not your first time together," he winked, clapping the Swede on the shoulder before leaving the room with the contract in hand.

A brutal jab at Berwald's emotions. Despite his fighting urge to swing at Matthias, he let it slide for now. There was work to be done and the last thing he wanted to worry about were bloody knuckles. "C'mon," Berwald stood, motioning for Tino to follow, "You start work today." Tino followed after the Swede as he led the way to the parking deck just a level above the basement of Urd-Rikke, and eventually to his car, a white Volkswagen Eos.

"Are you sure you want to use your own car for this?" Tino asked, sliding into the passenger seat once Berwald unlocked the door. "Bit risky, wouldn't you agree?"

"I'm not taking you directly over Russian borders," Berwald said matter-o-factly, starting the engine. "You'll have to walk a couple of blocks until you get to the FuseNet building."

"Oh joy," Tino replied in monotone. Once buckled in, Berwald pulled out into the traffic of Munich. Would it have been more efficient to take the subway? Probably, but man did the Swede love that Volkswagen.

Tino spent about thirty minutes gazing out the window of the passenger seat watching pedestrians speed by in the direction opposite to the movement of the car; some commuting to and from work, teenagers chatting amongst themselves in the outdoor seating areas of cafes, and the occasional pet owner taking their dogs for a morning stroll. Aside from human life, car horns blared through the general commotion, the wails of a police siren rang in the distance, construction-workers drilling into the sidewalks, the soft hums generated from car engines: a living, breathing city surrounding them.

"What exactly am I supposed to do when I get there?" Tino asked, finally breaking the surprisingly peaceful silence he and Berwald sunk into.

"Walk in, pray you don't get shot," Berwald replied bluntly. "That's the brief response,"

Tino bit his bottom lip, "Comforting to know that I'm expendable,"

"Partially expendable. Matthias has a lot riding on you," Reaching the drop-off point, Berwald pulled in close to the sidewalk. "I'm going to assume you know where to go from here, if not ask around."

"Thanks," Tino mumbled as he stepped out of the car.

"Oh and take this," Berwald tossed something Tino's way.

Least to say, Tino was… disappointed. "A flip phone? Really?" he looked down at the ancient piece of technology resting in his palm. "Might as well give me a pager while you're at it,"

With a roll of his eyes, Berwald leaned over to close the door behind Tino and returned to road.

He watched the Swede drive away until the car disappeared onto another street. According to his current location, Tino had been dropped off a couple of blocks away from the invisible barriers of Russian territory and several more until he would reach the FuseNet building itself. Grumbling quietly to himself, Tino shoved a hand in his pocket and began his journey.

Over the course of a nine-block endeavor, Tino finally stepped across the unspoken border of Danish-Russian control. He felt as if prying eyes of mobsters observing his every move. Should he turn, speak, or look the wrong way he would experience a death far more agonizing than the worst Matthias had to offer. God forbid, was Tino actually beginning to prefer the Dane's torture methods than Russian?

Tino wouldn't arrive at the steps of FuseNet until he walked an additional five-blocks. Calves burning slightly and feet starting to ache with each step, he was more than thankful for his little "adventure" to be over. Violet eyes gazed up the company building until a blinding glare from the windows turned his attentions back to street level. He pushed through rotating doors and walked up to the front desk.

"Violet Valley. Ivan's expecting me,"

The man at the front desk looked confused for but a moment before nodding. "Second elevator,"

Tino tapped the marble top with his knuckle as a silent gesture for his thanks. Into the elevator he went and seconds later Tino stepped out on the final floor, standing just a door away from the intimidating man who controlled the Russian mafia; a deadly man who ruled over the black market. Tino took a deep breath before stepping into his office.

Ivan stood looking over the city with his hands behind his back. "I trust you've returned with good news?"

Tino nodded, "He took the bait. I am officially his little 'spy',"

Ivan's lips curled into a devilish grin. "Then the plan is finally set in motion."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hvor vidunderligt: How wonderful
> 
> God morgon: Good morning
> 
> Sorry for the wait. I lost my drive for writing for a while, but I've found it again. A big thanks to my editor LePetitPapillon.
> 
> See you next chapter...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: Okay so first of all: hey! It's been... well it's been a while, hasn't it, lol? Okay so long story short, I picked up writing again. I lost time and an overall passion for Hetalia; however, I never had any thoughts of completely dropping this story. It's one that has been on the back-burner for quite some time and I'm just now picking it up again. It's at this point that I kinda feel like a George DeValier.I cannot promise that this story will get finished, but, dammit, I'm going to try!
> 
> SO here's the switch: I'm taking Tino and flipping the gender around. Although her popular fan name is "Tina", I find this to be far too basic for a woman of her stature, hence I am naming her "Clara". I will be making the name/description changes whenever I get the chance. If that chance never comes then this author's note will remain here. Enjoy!

Almost a month had passed since Clara agreed to be another mob pawn. While still loyal to her original contract with the Russians at FuseNet, she had to maintain her cover under the Scandinavians. Either group was capable of eliminating her without so much as a moment's notice and with no remorse. Clara understood the dangerous nature of her profession. Always checking her six, always alert. And what of her charge? He had proved to be the most difficult part of hiding her intentions. Berwald held Clara under constant surveillance; he would drop her off near FuseNet every morning, and pick her up every afternoon. On top of that, Clara's cell phone had been compromised. It was, as Berwald put it, to ensure the "sanctitude of the contract." Clara would have preferred the frank truth that every one of her actions was monitored rather than the flowery bullshit. Nevertheless, she was managing well, storing counter information in her tampon box. Underneath the hard exterior, Berwald was as timid as a small boy. He wouldn't dare go through a woman's toiletries.

Then there was their living situation. The Swede's home had a simplistic rustic beauty to it: a minimalistic scene coated with classic Swedish flare. Berwald's condo had two floors, a genuine rarity in European city homes, but, due to his line of work, there was nothing that was impossible to commission. He had bought two condos, one on the tenth floor and the other on the eleventh. There were two spiral staircases that connected the floors on opposite ends of the living space. Upon entry, one was greeted by a simple looking foyer that led into an open salon. The salon flowed effortlessly into the dining room and the kitchen, giving the first floor a warm, homey aesthetic. The second floor served as the rooming quarters with one master and two guest bedrooms; of the two, one of these guest bedrooms had been converted into Berwald's study.

However, the oddest feature of sharing a living space with Berwald was that, prior to her signing a contract with the Scandinavians, this was not her first time in the condo.

In the first few months under Ivan's contract, Clara struggled to find a way to infiltrate the Urd-Rikke security systems for they were surprisingly well-guarded. Well, they would have to be. They couldn't risk some hacker downloading information and selling it to the Russians or the authorities, now could they? She even tried to interrogate Matthias's followers, but from a young age, Matthias had shown himself to be a capable and dignified leader. His mobsters were fiercely loyal to the man regarded as a godfather. Clara explored every angle; she scoped nightly patrols, drugged escorts and janitors; she even scammed her way into restricted areas of the Urd-Rikke and sister facilities but they all availed to little if nothing at all. But there was one outlier― Berwald. While incognito under the name Sofia, she had caught the attentions of Berwald Oxenstierna.

Berwald regrettably remembers the first day Clara walked into Matthias's office. She staggered into the room clumsily, with three drinks tucked under her arm and a bag of food dangling from her mouth.

"I brought the food, sir!" she announced, her voice muffled.

Berwald shot up without hesitation to assist Sofia. He gently took the bag of food from her mouth with a nod, instantly losing himself in her looks. Her honey blonde locks fell around her rounded cheeks and her violet eyes gleamed under the light.

"Thank you,"

"No thank you!" Matthias greedily rubbed his hands together. "Ber, stop gaping and bring me my food, man!" Berwald blinked out of his trance and brought the food to Matthias's desk. The Dane dug through the bag, first handing Lukas and Berwald their lunches before grabbing his own. The godfather turned his attentions to Lukas, who gingerly put his lips against the mouth of a Sprite bottle, "This your new intern?"

Lukas nodded, swallowing a large gulp of refreshing soda, "Name's Sofia. She's working her way of the hazing process faster than the others," The trio chuckled.

"Well let's hope she'll last through the other phases as well," Matthias jeered.

Sofia smiled timidly which struck a cord in Berwald's heart. He would do anything to have her and Sofia noticed his interest immediately and exploited it.

Occasionally, Sofia would find a small bouquet on her desk. Later, she would find out that this was Matthias's doing guised as Berwald's. Regardless, it was a way in. One fateful day brought them together at a café, another event coordinated by Matthias. To Sofia's surprise, she actually enjoyed that hour-or-so people-watching with the Swede. She was mesmerized by his strong features, but his gaze was the most mystifying. Berwald's electric blue eyes could cut through large crowds and hone in on a single occurrence within that hoard of people. This was how Berwald communicated with Sofia for the first ten or so minutes of their awkward little date.

"Ya know what I love the most about cafés?" he posed, eyes lazily following a passerby. "I love th' indirect interactions you can have. One look at someone and you can tell what kind of day they're havin'. Latching on to another person's life, even if for a second, is the most facsinatin' thing to me,"

Sofia raised a cup of tea to her lips, "Why is that?"

Berwald's mouth twitched and his head cocked slightly, "Don't know… Maybe it's just a weird quirk of mine. Everything seems so mundane from a general worldview but it's people and their stories that make humanity…" his voice tapered off, failing to find the words to accommodate his philosophies.

But Sofia understood in full, even without the articulated words. She supposed that's what made spy work so immersive as well. Yes, there was the basic information, but it was the investigation that always intrigued her.

"So, Berwald, tell me," a teasing smile spread across her face, "just what were you trying to accomplish by sending all of those flowers? I've started running out of vases to put them in,"

Berwald raised and eyebrow, "Flowers? What d'you mean?"

"I know you've been giving me all of these bouquets every other week. I guess I should thank you. They've really livened up my flat,"

The Swede's jaw set as he let out a knowing sigh. _Matthias_ , he thought, waving at a waiter for a check. "'m sorry but there has been a misunderstanding," Sofia could hear him mutter something about kicking the Dane's ass later when he suddenly stood up, placing a twenty on the table, "This should cover the both of us. Feel free to keep the change,"

"Wait!" Sofia interjected, grabbing his wrist, "What's so bad about him trying to set us up?"

Berwald gently but firmly removed himself from Sofia's grip, "I'm sorry, but I really need to go. Goodbye, Sofia," With that, he walked off, eventually disappearing into the crowd.

"Damn," Sofia clucked, slumping back into the chair and crossing her arms. When the waiter brought the check, she handed him the twenty and told him to keep the change before downing the remainder of her tea. She placed the cup down and reflected on the past forty-five minutes. To her surprise, the Swede was actually quite sweet and articulate when he could find the words. His accent was strong but it had an odd charm, as did his stoic nature. If she wasn't careful, she might actually develop feelings for this man. Sofia would need to distance herself as much as possible.

...

"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" Berwald snarled, slamming Matthias's laptop shut. "When did I give you permission to meddle with my love life?"

"You're like a brother to me. How could I not?"

"Cut it out. Whatever you've been doing, whatever strings you've been pulling, everything needs to stop. Immediately," Berwald's eyes were filled with rage. The audacity… "Keep your ugly mug out of my business,"

Matthias pouted, "Ugly? I'm pretty sure I still look young! I can't be that old yet…"

Berwald's intensity softened. He let out a disgruntled sigh, pushing up his glasses. "Listen, Matt, I get it. You want me to be happy but… I can't. I can't risk something happening to her. Not like…"

"I know," Matthias's jesting tone suddenly turned serious and sympathetic, "but it's been, what? Almost six years? You need to let her go,"

"Don't tell me something I already know," Berwald massaged the back of his neck, "Just, please… I'm not ready,"

Matthias nodded, getting up from behind his desk to pat his friend's back, "Whatever you want, man. But you need to stop stressing so much. You're starting to get a forehead crease,"

"Have you seen your hair? They're startin' to turn white,"

"Hey! That just builds character," Hearing Berwald chuckle brought a smile to Matthias's lips. Nice to know that he was loosening up. The Dane nudged his friend, leaning towards his ear, "You know... Who ever said that you had to be together? Least you could manage is to get a little action,"

Berwald almost laughed, "How old are you? Seventeen?"

"Whoever said I've aged past thirteen?"

"Somehow you've managed to make this even more uncomfortable,"

Over the next three months, Sofia cautiously made continuous advances towards Berwald. He was resistant at first, but she eventually got him to warm up to her enough to get invited over for dinner one night. After a couple glasses of wine and extremely careful coaxing, Sofia led Berwald up to his bed. When Berwald was asleep, Sofia crept out from under the covers. She dug through her jeans, pulled out a flash drive, and commenced her search. She speedily moved into what looked to be the Swede's study and rummaged through his filing cabinet, bookshelves, and, finally, his desktop. When she moved the mouse around, the screen came to life. _What an idiot_ , she mused, scrolling through his files. Naturally, Berwald's computer was set in Swedish; and, although her Swedish was spotty, Sofia managed to find several files containing the Scandinavian agenda. Could she have gone ahead and sent all of that information to Ivan and call it a day? Navigating the mouse over to the security folder, Sofia copied all of those files onto the flash drive. _Too easy_ , she pulled the drive out of the USB port and restored the desktop to its original condition. Sofia swept the study, making sure that everything was as she found it before she tiptoed back into bed with Berwald.

…

Snug under a blanket, Clara snored lightly through a little cat nap. Tonight Clara was due for another report and the formula was simple: Ivan handed her forged information and Clara delivered it to Matthias. Work simple enough to reward herself with some shut-eye. When the an abrasive alarm sounded, Clara fumbled to dismiss the wake-up call. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Clara languidly glimpsed at the time. _18:39._

"Shit!" she jumped out of bed and rushed down the hallway into the bathroom.

"G'mornin' sleeping beauty," Berwald chastised her from his study.

"Piss off!" Clara spat, "If you didn't want to be late, you should have woke me up,"

The Swede glanced in the bottom right of his computer screen,"Maybe you shouldn't have claimed that you would take a thirty-minute nap. 'S nearly been an hour." He pushed himself away from the desk and strode out into the hallway. Leaning against the doorframe, Berwald's eyes met with Clara's at the other end of the corridor― she was frantically brushing down wild honey locks. "You've got twenty minutes."

"Hey, can you grab me a snack or something?" Clara asked, pulling her hair back into a ponytail, "I haven't eaten since last night,"

"Since you asked so nicely," Berwald rolled his eyes as Clara shoved a hand waving her middle finger out of the crack. He turned down the hallway and descended into the first floor where he entered the kitchen and fixed up a sandwich for Clara.

...

"Ya remember where we're meeting later?" Berwald inquired, pushing his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose.

Clara nodded, washing down the last bite of her meal with water, "You can count on me, chief,"

"Don't be late."

Clara shut the cab door behind her and strode out into the evening crowd. She had been sticking her neck out under a guillotine for a little under a month now. This wasn't her first time leading a double-life, but it definitely ranked amongst the most dangerous. Clara waved to the ladies behind the front desk, making her way over to indulge in idle prattle. Despite their constant gossip, that mindless talk often led to secrets that were ripe for the taking. Without their knowing, Clara's eyes swept across the computer screens searching for any new leak to slip past Matthias.

"Tell me, Marike, can you get on the phone with Ivan's secretary? I need to pay him a visit," said Clara.

Marike shook her head as she reached for the phone, "Honestly, Elise, I don't know how you can keep showing up to work so late. It's almost seven!"

"It's a gift," Clara joked.

"Ya know, there's a rumor going around that the reason you can get away with all of this is because you and the boss man are an item," suggested Sophia.

"That's an obvious lie and you know it!"

"Elise, Eduard said that Mister Braginski is a little busy right now but you can head on up anyway,"

"Well, I'm off! See you, girls,"

"Wait, don't leave me hanging! I need to know!"

"Bye, honey." Clara skipped off. The elevator ride up to Ivan's floor was relatively short, but upon exiting she was greeted by frantic shouting. With a raised eyebrow, she looked at Eduard who sat calmly behind his desk. "Is there an issue?"

The secretary glanced up at her briefly, the light from the computer screen reflecting off his glasses, "Only a minor one. Mister Braginski should dispose of it momentarily. You can head on in,"

"Mind briefing me on this, uh, situation before I go in?"

"An unsatisfied dog decided it would be a good idea to try and get revenge,"

"Thanks for giving me a straight answer, asshole," Clara mumbled as she pushed open Ivan's office door. She was greeted with a gunshot.

"Who the fuck are you?" A bewildered and bloodied man stood in front of her with the barrel of a gun pointed her way. His facial features were swollen and bruised; once ash blonde hair was dark and matted with blood. Clara carefully looked around the room for a bullet hole and quickly found it behind her to her left. Any closer and she might have lost her ear or her head.

"You're being quite rude, Yuri. You almost killed someone very important to me," Ivan said calmly.

The crazed man, Yuri, stayed his weapon towards Clara, "Important, huh? Then how about I kill her!"

"You don't want to make me angry," Ivan advised, his face remaining disturbingly kind and tranquil. His violet eyes were cold and they pierced through the air like needles. "Put the gun down, Yuri,"

"You fucking set me up, man!" Yuri's arm whipped towards Ivan, "Left me to fucking die!"

"You're nothing but a pawn. And I can do whatever I want with my pawns," Ivan chided cooly.

"I didn't sign up for this shit!"

"In fact, you did. Might I remind you of the day I found you groveling in the streets? You came to me," Ivan threw a pointed look at Clara before drawing his attentions to Yuri. Clara blinked and shook her head to bring her back to reality. Steadily, she began inching towards Yuri while his focus was still on Ivan.

"'Go watch over the delivery,' he says. 'Make sure you don't get into trouble,' he says," Yuri hiccuped, pathetically spitting out words as hot tears rushed down his face. "'Take Chet and Vic with you,' he said!" He cocked the gun, " You're fucking sick!"

"Aw, don't hurt my feelings," Ivan pouted.

"You blew them up! The delivery was a goddamn trap from the start and you blew them to bits! Then you sent the Orients to finish the job, but I got away…" Out of his peripherals, Yuri spotted Clara making her way towards him and he fired at her feet. "One step closer and I'll blow that pretty face right off your shoulders, baby cakes!"

At almost lightning speed, Ivan pulled out a handgun from inside his suit jacket and fired. Yuri cried out, pressing his hand to against the right side of his face. So much blood gushed out that for a split second, Clara thought that Ivan had shot the man's head off, but when she got a closer look, a part of Yuri's ear lay on the floor.

"I suggest that you not make any more mistakes, Yuri. It'd be a shame if I took off the other one," Ivan warned with a devilish grin.

"Fuck you!" Another scream and Yuri collapsed.

"Drop it," Ivan commanded and so Yuri followed, kicking the weapon away from him as soon as it hit the ground. Clara immediately seized the gun and held it towards Yuri. She quickly realized that there was no need for two weapons to be pointed at a man who was already vis-a-vis with Death himself. "It seems that I can't trust anyone to follow simple instructions these days. I'll have to finish what I started," Ivan blew out Yuri's other kneecap. "Crawl, pig."

Clara averted her attention to the wall. Her eyes may have been blind to the brutality, but her ears were not so fortuitous. Yuri's bloodcurdling cries filled the room just as much as the cracking of bones did. With every stomp Clara heard, her soul ached and her body screamed. Her face grew numb and she leaned against Ivan's desk for support. Her palpitating heartbeat crippled her ability to control her breathing patterns and her palms began to sweat and the gun that had previously been Yuri's fell from her grip.

When Ivan finally stepped away from the body, his suit was covered in blood. He sniffed, took a deep breath, and retreated behind his desk to fetch a soiled rag from one of his drawers to wipe his hands. "Eduard, bring me a new suit and have someone come in here and clean up this mess," he ordered, a once gentle face now caught in a foul snarl. He gazed at Clara and almost chuckled, "One would think that by being one of Kostya's most praised pupils that you would be able to stomach all this,"

Clara glared at the Russian. "I'm a defector. Don't associate-"

"A defector, yes, but still one of the best: a star shining brightly through night sky. Do you know how many people die trying to achieve what you have?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But I do," Ivan probed. His face had relaxed into its standard unsettling psychotic tranquility and his beautiful violet eyes locked with hers. "Have you ever wondered why he praised violet eyes so much, Clara?" She shook her head, but she knew as well as he did. Ivan waited for her to respond and sneered when she remained silent. He sorted through files on his desk before pulling out a manila folder, "Tell you what, let's do a trade. You tell me your story, at least the beginning of it, and I'll let you run off and play spy, hm?"

Clara narrowed her eyes. "That seems like a shitty trade-off,"

"Ah-ah! Language, missy. I'm being generous,"

The corner of her mouth twitched, her eyes wandering over to the pool of crimson not five feet away. A bubble frozen in time melted and unleashed snowy memories of winters spent on the Russo-Finnish borderline. Clara bit the inside of her cheek and sighed. "My parents died when I was young and I lived in a shitty household with my aunt and uncle for a while. I ran away, Kostya picked me up just before I starved or froze to death. I was seven at the time, I think… Ten years later, life at the camp was all that I knew and all I cared to know. I got some jobs and, I don't know, something snapped and I had to leave so I did. End of story," She realized that she had avoided eye contact with Ivan and silently scolded herself for doing so.

Ivan studied Clara closely, a friendly grin gracing his lips. "Not sure if I'll be able to get much more out of you. I'd say this was well earned," He slid the folder towards the Fin to which she quickly grabbed.

"I'm going."

"See you."

Without hesitation, Clara pulled out her phone and dialed Berwald's number, "Change of plans, Berwald, I'm going straight to Matthias,"

" _What the hell d'you mean? 's not what we discussed,"_

"Don't get your jock-strap in a twist, Dear. I'll be there soon,"

" _Clara, wait-"_

She ended the call and hailed a taxi. "Take me to the Urd-Rikke building, please," Clara set her bag to the side and removed the manilla folder from inside, scanning through its contents. The documents were impeccable and that did not sit well with her. The nature of her contract with the Russians was to lay out a trap for the Dane but this seemed too straightforward. Ivan was even hiding something from Clara. Nevertheless, she closed the file and returned it to her bag. She then rested her head against the window and let her eyes lazily follow the cityscape that passed by. Clara looked up and her gaze met up with her own faint reflection. In that mirror image of herself, she could see the cold and cruel eyes of Ivan Braginski; an inhuman look that she was all too familiar with. Clara frowned and her reflection grinned mischievously. _You'll never get away,_ it teased. "Just worry about keeping up, jackass," Clara mumbled, closing her eyes and folding her arms across her chest.

…

"Oh look what the cat brought in!" Matthias exclaimed heartily, flipping through the contents of the file. "I assume you're not having any trouble?" Clara shook her head. "No? Of course not. You are a master at this, are you not?" The Fin remained silent and only blinked. Matthias raised an eyebrow, "You alright, kid? You're usually more talkative than this. Do I need to bring Ber in here so you two can bicker?" More silence. Matthias tapped his finger against his desk impatiently, "Alright, you're starting to creep me out… You aren't plotting to kill me again, are ya? Because I'd really hate to have to-"

"A rough night," Clara interrupted, "I've had a rough night,"

Matthias's eye widened and he relaxed against the back of his chair. "If someone like you can have a rough night then I can only imagine what it would mean for the sucker who made you feel this way," Matthias took a moment to inspect Clara. She seemed on edge, vaguely frightened eyes staring at a fixed point on Matthias's desk. There was a hint of familiarity in that look. "You're not the only one with demons, kid, but it's how you deal with them that makes you who you are,"

Clara blinked, making eye contact with Matthias, "I don't know what you're talking about…"

"Oh really?" Matthias rolled his eyes. "Well, I won't poke around where I'm not wanted. Seems like Ivan has already gotten underneath your skin before I ever could,"

"How did you…?"

Matthias stood up and made his way over to Clara, "I grew up fighting this bastard. I think it'd be an insult to my intelligence if I didn't know the effects of his breaking methods by now." He smiled and clapped her back, "I'd say you've earned a good night's rest, huh? I'll make sure Ber doesn't give you a hard time,"

Clara looked cautiously up at the Dane and could find no falsehoods behind his laugh lines. _He's either staying true to Danish stereotypes or he's the biggest idiot I've ever met,_ she thought.

"Now get out of here, kid," Matthias gave her a gentle nudge towards the door, "Drink a cup of tea or something,"

The trip home was unusually silent. Clara and Berwald had picked up the habit of bickering to fill the void of sound whenever they were around each other, but Clara wouldn't say a word. Once they arrived home, Clara retreated to her room, slipped into a graphic T-shirt and gym shorts, and eased onto the bed. Unfortunately, that night Clara was unable to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to LaPetitePapillon for dealing with my rough drafts! See you soon...!


	5. Chapter 5

There she lay, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for the lull of sleep to take over, but that bliss never came. Instead, Clara lay wide awake, the mutilated visage of the man named Yuri immortalized by Ivan's inhumanity haunting her. No matter how hard Clara tried to push the image to the back of her mind, the brutal scene persisted in repeating itself. Clara turned to her side with an exasperated huff, running her fingers through her hair. There was a point in her life when this kind of brutality would not have disturbed her as much as it did now. With another frustrated sigh, Clara rolled onto her back, extending her arm to inspect her hand. She flexed her fingers and clenched her fist, bringing her arm down angrily as she sucked her teeth. Just as vividly as she could recall Yuri's murder, she remembered her days spent with Kostya.

Clara was about seven years old when she was whisked away into a snowy Finnish night. A number of things could have happened to her; Clara could have been sold into human trafficking or raped and killed on the spot. However, when she awoke, she was in her new "home." Clara was tangled in the warmth of a lemon-scented blanket in a homely cabin room that she would abide in for over a decade. Clara remembered when she first met Kostya- he was a stout man with beady brown eyes, a crooked nose, and a coaxing smile.

He greeted her with a wide grin and a comforting embrace. Taking her face in his rough hands, he said, "You have such beautiful eyes, Veroshka. You are going to be my most prized creation."

Kostya was tasked with creating the perfect league of relentless soldiers for the Russian government. His dictatorial mannerisms instructed that everyone living in the camp refer to him as "Father." The camp Clara would call home consisted of small cabins, a common area, and several fields for physical and combat training- a village for developing the perfect killer. The village consisted of two main groups: the Regulars and the Centurions. Clara belonged to that of the Centurions. Interestingly enough, a common trait that she and the other dozen in this group shared was their violet eyes, a trait referred to as an "exotic mutation." These were the ones who fell victim to Kostya's heavy brainwashing because although he seemed gentle, just, and fair to the Regulars, he was anything but to the Centurions. His rules were rigorous, his training sessions excruciating, and his indoctrination irresistible. Those who did not or could not complete a task in a certain time frame were tied to a metal pole in the common area and were lashed in front of the whole community. After these lashings and public humiliation, the weak, barely conscious individual would be dragged into the cellar where they were neglected for weeks, if not months. Hearing that someone had been taken to the cellar held the same weight as saying that someone had been taken to the slaughter house. All those who went in seldom came out the same.

The Centurions daily regime was exact and demanding. Weekday mornings, the group was schooled in Russian language and history, mathematics, and a fair share of foreign languages such as English, French, and German. Then, weekday afternoons were filled with countless hours of physical engagement. There was target practice, physical and combat training, and drill downs. Finally, the weekends were reserved for testing academically and physically, all of which Clara, now known as Veroshka, excelled at. Rising to the top of her class was Veroshka, determined to make Father proud and sever her motherland. Veroshka's indoctrination was swift due to her instinct to survive because those who failed to block out their former identities would have faced the same pitiful fate as everyone else did. Veroshka was the fastest runner, the best shot, the formidable combatant, the genius: the perfect specimen. Her aggressive determination to succeed was unparalleled; however, Veroshka had an advantage that the others didn't- she lived under the same roof as Kostya. Although Kostya commanded that everyone in the camp call him Father, Veroshka actually believed the man to be her father. Outside of the classroom and off the practice fields, she was treated like a princess, receiving the most nourishment in all aspects: she dined finer than the other Centurions, she donned better clothing than the other Centurions, and the bed she slept in was better than the cold metal bunks the Centurions slept in. She believed that Kostya could do no wrong; he was always fair in his judgment, but when first confronted with his true nature, her eyes were opened for a moment only to have them sewn closed and her heart sealed away.

Although she was indoctrinated, Veroshka's ability to feel was never completely eradicated. Beyond her rough exterior lay a merciful and loving character, and that trait always landed Veroshka in trouble. She would always be reprimanded for failing to follow orders, but her sympathy for the Regulars would destroy her. A new girl arrived at the camp when the sun began to melt away the snow. She was petite with small lips, long dark hair, and delicate, soft hands. Veroshka saw her around the camp from time to time but she never had an interaction with her. Earlier that morning, there was a lashing and tied to the pole was that girl. She was subject to ten lashes for talking back to… someone. Veroshka arrived at the plaza minutes after her "crime" was announced and only witnessed hard leather viciously tearing through once smooth, olive skin. The girl bit down hard on her lower lip, bracing each lash until it was over. Compared to the other Centurions, who quietly complaining about the lack of "entertainment", Veroshka almost admired her for her bravery.

When the tenth crack sounded, Kostya walked out into the middle of the plaza. "Everyone get back to your daily schedule. You, girl," he knelt, cutting the girl loose, "will be going out for staff practice with the Centurions. With that girl over there," Kostya pointed towards Veroshka, who had already turned her back and started heading for the practice field. "Do I make myself clear?" The girl muttered a shaky _yes, sir_ as she pushed herself off the ground and staggered towards the field.

As the girl approached the meadow, her weary eyes could barely comprehend all of the movement going on. Some pairs, usually Centurion versus Centurion, faced off in hand-to-hand combat or with bo staffs. Unfortunately, there were also those poor souls like her that would have to face the skill of a perfect killer. By the time to girl arrived, she had watched Veroshka defeat her opponent effortlessly. A bruised Centurion lay sprawled in the grass, his own wooden rod far from his reach.

"Well done," an instructor, Konstantin, nodded to Veroshka's success and waved the girl over. "Pick up his staff," he commanded. Taking the rod in her hands, she stood sheepishly in front of Veroshka.

Veroshka raised an eyebrow and scratched her nose. Who's idea was it to pit the girl fresh from a public lashing against her? She inspected the girl closely: her body was trembling and she held the staff awkwardly. The girl's shirt wasn't even buttoned up all the way, let alone correctly. _She must have had to run to get here,_ Veroshka thought, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"What are you doing?" Konstantin demanded, "She's weak. Attack her and get it over with."

Veroshka looked from the girl to the instructor, then back to the girl and shook her head. "If she's not going to put up a fight, why bother? Give me a challenge and let this girl go. I mean look at her!" she pointed, "I'm not about to waste my time with her if I could get the same amount of practice from a punching bag."

"You will do as I say!"

"I won't! Let me kick Sergei's ass instead."

"Veroshka, speak back to me one more time and I'll―"

In one swift move, Veroshka kicked up the staff and swept Konstantin off his feet. He fell to the ground with a muffled thud and growled Veroshka's name in fury. Veroshka then turned her attentions to the girl and shouted, "Go!" Fear and panic struck the girl's heart, but, true to following orders, she dashed away from the scene. However, while Veroshka was distracted, the instructor had regained his footing and disarmed her, now wielding the staff himself. As Konstantin proceeded to bludgeon her, all eyes were focused on the fiasco. While the Regulars stood and watched with mouths gaping, the Centurions egged on the instructor. Father's pet… She had never been publicly shamed like this before.

"Harder!" they encouraged. "Little bitch deserves it! Why don't you just kill the brat? How does it feel, Veroshka? Maybe I'll be the next favorite!"

As the other Centurions jeered, Veroshka lay crumpled in the grass with her jaw clenched and nails digging into her skin. Tears welled up but never fell from her cheeks as she listened to her colleagues cheer for Konstantin who was blinded with rage.

"What the hell is going on?" the crowd immediately quieted as Kostya strode towards Konstantin and Veroshka.

Konstantin stopped, letting the staff fall from his grip, "I was only―"

"I don't want your petty excuses," Kostya snarled, " _What is the meaning of this?_ "

"No matter what we do, she is always showing mercy, sir. Just now, she let that Reg get away,"

Kostya crossed his arms and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Again…"

"Sir, if I may," the instructor moved close to the director and whispered, "she needs to be disciplined. Properly. We've been too gracious for too long and it's showing,"

Kostya's eyes gazed down at Veroshka who looked back with pleading eyes. He turned his back on her and sucked his teeth. _There it is,_ he thought, _Those eyes aren't that of a killer just yet…_ "Take her to the cellar."

A devilish grin rose on Konstantin's face, "With pleasure, sir. C'mon, you!" He hoisted Veroshka to her feet and took her to the far end of the camp.

Veroshka had never been down to the cellar, let alone allowed to venture near it but, upon entry, her olfactory system was treated to mold, waste, and rot. Konstantin had left her in the hands of a punisher, a dark man with large arms. He pushed Veroshka into a harshly lit room, stripped her down to her bra and underwear, and strapped her onto a cold metal table. She struggled against her restraints but to no avail― she was trapped. As the punisher moved around the room, Veroshka's head wrenched to follow him. From a far corner, he wheeled over some contraption that held a five-gallon water jug. He then stuck a siphoning hose into the small mouth of the jug and positioned the end over Veroshka's face, water slowly dripping down onto her forehead. The punisher then exited the room, leaving Veroshka to the droning sound of water falling onto her skin.

"What the hell is this supposed to do?" Veroshka asked into the empty room, holding back laughter. Veroshka watched as the water trickled out of the hose and fell onto her forehead. It was just water. Flexing her fingers, Veroshka, try as she might, pulled against her restraints, failing time and time again.

_Drip… Drop… Drip…_

Veroshka observed as each drop of water fell on the hard surface of her skin, always anticipating it too early or too late.

_Drip… Drop… Drip…_

Her eyes grew tired and they fluttered shut, but in taking away one sense, another was heightened― hearing. Every drop that exploded on her forehead came with a slight splatting sound that bounced off every wall in the room.

_Drip… Drop… Drip…_

Soon, Veroshka was beginning to lose her grasp of time but not soon enough to feel like something was digging into her skull. Veroshka hummed softly to herself. Just some meaningless little tune to drown out the sound of water trickling onto her forehead.

_Drip…_

"Two thousand one hundred seventy-seven,"

_Drop…_

"Two thousand one hundred seventy-eight,"

_Drip…_

"Two thousand one hundred seventy-nine,"

_Drop…_

"Two thousand one hundred ninety. Wait… Shit!" Veroshka pounded her head against the table, the cool drops of water splattering onto new areas of skin. "Get me out of here!" she shouted, struggling against her restraints one more only to give up the next second. "Fucking get me _out_!" But no one came. Her voice only joined the chorus of madness that filled the concrete halls of the cellar. "Let me outta here," she groaned, still beating her head against the table.

_Drip… Drop… Drip…_

What time was it? Had it been a day yet? … Or had it been three? Veroshka couldn't tell anymore. Her stomach begged to be fed and her head throbbed with a migraine growing in intensity. "Out," she whimpered, eyes tightly shut, "Me… Get me out." Her eyes darted towards the door as it swung open and a man walked in. It was the same punisher as before bearing a full five-gallon jug. The other one must have been nearly empty. Veroshka didn't even notice. "Hey," she wheezed, "Can you maybe give me just a sip of that?" The punisher only grunted, replaced the jug, and left the room. " _Fuck you_!" Veroshka pulled against the leather straps holding her to the table in frustration.

_Drip… Six thousand four hundred._

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis: sanctificetur Nomen Tuum,"

_Drop… Six thousand four hundred and one._

"Adveniat Regnum Tuum; fiat voluntas Tua."

_Drip… Six thousand four hundred and two._

"Sicut in caelo, et in terra." Veroshka heard the door swing open, but she continued to recite the prayer. It was probably just the punisher again. Had the water run low? She felt someone's hands removing her restraints. Confused, Veroshka opened her eyes to find Kostya standing before her.

He tossed a blanket in her lap as he turned and waited by the entrance, "C'mon. You'll need to get those cuts looked at. I can't risk you getting an infection,"

Nearly two weeks passed before Veroshka was strong enough to resume the usual Centurion regime, but when she did, her colleagues began to treat her differently. While they once scrutinized her behind her back, they now did so openly. Seeing the ever-so-talented and spoiled Veroshka beaten and sent to the cellars did wonders for the general Centurions' self-esteem and gave them the courage to degrade her vis-a-vis.

Whether Centurion or Regular, everyone in the camp ate at the mess hall, Centurions and Regulars alike. It was one of the rare moments of peace between the two groups, albeit tense. when Veroshka received her tray, it was considerably heavier than that of anyone else's in the building. In addition to her food portions, she also exercised her privilege to eat in her quarters away from the rest of the population. A right which she increasingly took advantage of more and more lately. However, before Veroshka could reach the mess hall exit, a built Centurion forcibly bumped into her, causing the tray of food to crash onto the tiles.

"Filth," he snarled, tightly grasping her arm. "I should have been Father's favorite," Veroshka looked up at her assailant― Sergei. He was apparently Father's star pupil before he brought her into the camp. "Let go of me, or you'll regret it,"

"I'll regret what?" he sneered, pulling her closer. "Everyone knows that you're not so invincible now, hot stuff. You're on the same level as the rest of us."

"Your breath stinks," Veroshka said blatantly before ramming her knee into Sergei's gut. He stumbled, loosening his grip on her. She took this opportunity to grab her food tray off the floor and swing it at his face.

Sergei fell backwards, hand covering a bloody nose, "You bitch!"

"Sergei!" barked an instructor, the same one who had suggested Veroshka's punishment. "Since you enjoy playing with your food so much, you'll be cleaning up this mess that you've made," he gestured at the messy heap of food, "and the rest of the mess hall after dinner,"

Sergei nodded reluctantly, wiping away the blood with the back of his hand. "Yes, sir," He then threw a bitter glare at Veroshka and muttered, "This isn't over,"

"Touch me again and it'll be your last day in this camp," When Veroshka moved her attentions away from Sergei, she noticed that, once again, all eyes were fixed on her. Flustered, she briskly dashed out of the mess hall.

"Hey, wait!" a voice called out but Veroshka didn't stop to acknowledge it. "I said wait!"

Veroshka turned heel abruptly and a girl ran into her, knocking Veroshka back a couple steps. The girl then proceeded to apologize profusely before Veroshka recognized her soft features. "You're that girl."

She nodded, smiling and extending her hand, "My name is Sonya."

"Veroshka," she cautiously accepted the girl's handshake.

"So, um, I just wanted to thank you for what you did a while back. It was brave and I never thought that a Centurion could be so…" Sonya's voice trailed off.

"So what?"

"Kind,"

Veroshka's brow furrowed, "I'm not kind."

"But you are. You're nothing like the others. Not the Centurions, not even the Regulars," Sonya took Veroshka's hand in hers, giving it a squeeze. "Don't you feel it, too? The two of us… We aren't supposed to be here. Everyone else is so mean all the time and it's like we're the only people in here who remember what it means to be human."

"I barely even know who you are. What makes you think―"

"I just do,"

Veroshka's violet eyes gazed quizzically at their hands. Sonya's touch was gentle and her nails were impossibly perfect. A shiver moved all the way from Veroshka's head to her toes, and, in response, Sonya's grip tightened. Veroshka blinked and shook her head, yanking her hand away, "If you're suggesting that we become friends, no can do. There's no such thing as friendship in a place like this, let alone one between a Centurion and a Reg."

"That doesn't mean it has to stay that way," Sonya pouted. "What's your name?"

"Didn't I already tell you that?"

Sonya rolled her eyes, "Not this Russian pen name that Kostya gives everyone. Besides, there is a slight crack in your accent so I can tell you aren't actually from Russia," Sonya almost giggled at Veroshka's shock. "So, what's your name? Your _real_ name?"

Veroshka hesitated for far too long. Her name… It was Veroshka, wasn't it? She tried to reach back to her farthest memory to confirm her truth but the harder she pushed, the past became dizzyingly dark; however, she did hear something of a whisper. "My name is…"

...

"Clara," Berwald knocked on her bedroom door, pulling her back into the present. "We need to talk,"

Clara yawned, pushing herself out of bed, "So you put me under constant surveillance yet you still have the moral ambiguity to be polite about entering my room?" she queried, opening the door. "You're a fool if I ever saw one." Berwald ignored her and pointed to the armchair in the corner of the room. Clara took a seat, crossed her legs, and gazed up at the giant before her. "What is it?"

He threw down the file she turned into Matthias earlier that day, "What the hell is this?"

Clara raised an eyebrow, "Those are the files I gave-"

"D'ya think I'm a goddamn idiot?"

"Well…"

"It's a rhetorical question. Did you actually think that I wouldn't notice anything you been doing the past three weeks?" He tossed another folder at Clara's feet.

Clara inspected the contents of the file and it contained photos of herself sneaking off to meet Russian mafia members on the streets or at restaurants, exchanging flash drives and whatnot. "To be fair," she started, closing the folder, "I am working as a double-agent. Those were false files so stop being so paranoid,"

"Th' information you've been giving Matthias is coded and you damn well know it!" Berwald growled.

"I have no idea what you're talking about,"

"Cut the bullshit!" the Swede slammed his fist on the nightstand. "Are you or are you not still working against Matthias?"

Clara's jaw clenched, Berwald's eyes piercing through her façade. Irrationally, Clara's head jerked away from Berwald, as she did so, she scolded herself quietly. Almost immediately, she could feel his scrutinizing eyes soften.

"Need I remind ya that you are bound to a new contract; hence, yer loyalty is newly bought. Keep a blade level to your eyes, Clara," Berwald turned and exited the room, leaving the door open.

…

That weekend, Clara refused to venture out of her bedroom. She had placed the armchair under the doorknob and positioned herself near the window that looked out over the city. The window was open and Clara was leaning against the iron railing. A light breeze dancing through her locks and the sun warmed her skin. However, the serene weather outside did not line up with the turmoil in Clara. Not only did Yuri's death disturb her, but the threat of Berwald reporting her infidelity to Matthias troubled her. Ivan was a powerful man who ruled with an iron fist and without emotion. He could protect Clara but his lack of humanity always meant that, if the time ever came, she would be a liability, an expendable pawn. On the other hand, Matthias was just as powerful if not more influential. Unless she was on his good side, she would always feel the looming presence of a gun pointed at the back of her head. Behind that gun stood Berwald, his finger itching to pull the trigger. Clara could handle a full squad of men on her own, infiltrate facilities without leaving a trace, and make herself disappear― change her identity in a matter of days― but Berwald was a force that she failed to recognize the full potential of. A pleasant surprise to find someone who was on the same wavelength, but also a threat if she continued to operate the way she had been. There was a familiarity that she and Berwald shared that allowed him to read her like a book, but whatever it was that actually connected them was a mystery to her. Clara had opened herself up to Berwald once and that was at the coffee shop so many months ago. Could that have been it? No… that was far too shallow of a reason.

Berwald's last sentence replayed like a broken record: " _... Keep a blade level to your eyes."_ An unwelcome shiver ran up her spine and a lump rose in her throat. Clara tried to shake out her nerves only to find that she was trembling. Could she really go through with this? Was it really worth her life? She had already been paid by Ivan and that would be enough to buy herself a new identity and a one-way plane ticket. Her breathing shortened and her vision blurred as her mind swirling with growing anxieties. Clara couldn't resist her mind's urge to move away from the current situation. Gazing back out into the city of Munich, Clara's memories picked up where they last left off.

…

"Sonya, I don't think this is a good idea,"

"Shh!" Sonya hushed, pushing Veroshka down behind a wall as a door opened. Light flushed out the black of night for a moment before the source waned away. "Alright, let's keep moving," Sonya took Veroshka's hand and they dashed off into the night, a field of tall grass yards away.

"Are you sure we won't get caught?" Veroshka inquired, her eyes constantly checking their surroundings.

Sonya rolled her eyes, "It's nearly three in the morning! Who is going to be out in the field at this time of night anyway?"

"You never know,"

"Oh shut up," Sonya chided, shaking herself free from Veroshka's hand. "C'mon, slowpoke! Catch me if you can!"

"Sonya, you're so loud!" Veroshka warned, failing to hold back a giggle through her serious façade. "Besides, I'm faster than you, you know,"

"Then give me a head start!"

Veroshka rolled her eyes, motioning for Sonya to start running. She dramatically tapped her foot and checked an invisible watch before sprinting after her. As the distance between them closed, Veroshka couldn't help but notice how Sonya's olive skin glowed in the moonlight. Sonya glanced over her shoulder, laughing giddily as she tried to speed away from Veroshka. A playful smile graced Veroshka's lips. Within seconds, Veroshka was on Sonya's heels and she tackled Sonya. They rolled in the tall grass giggling when their eyes met, Sonya lay on top of her gazing into Veroshka shining violet pools. Veroshka bit her lip, moved a hand to the back of Sonya's neck, bringing her face close. Gingerly, their lips met. When they pulled away, Veroshka cupped a hand around the other's cheek, inspecting her face. She frowned when her thumb grazed over a large scab on Sonya's face. She hadn't noticed it before because it was so dark, but now that their faces were mere inches from each other, Veroshka could see everything.

"Who did this?"

"Oh, this? It was just some Centurion. Apparently, I was in his way and he cut me with a knife," Sonya waved her injury off, resting her forehead on Veroshka's.

"Was it Sergei? I bet it was Sergei. I swear I'll cut his dick off if he so much as-"

"It really is no big deal," Sonya interrupted.

"Well, it's a big deal to me," There was silence for a moment before Sonya cleared her throat.

"Clara, I've been thinking… What if we just ran away?"

Sonya always used Veroshka's real name whenever they were alone. Clara cocked an eyebrow, "What do you mean?"

"I mean what if we could ditch this place?" Sonya sat up, straddling the other. "We could get out of here and travel all around the world. Since you know all of those languages, we would never have to worry about getting around!" Sonya beamed, pulling Clara from the ground. "Let's get out of here and live by our own rules. Not by these dumb ones Kostya enforces."

"You're insane. Do you know how hard it would be to leave this camp? And out in the world at our age? We'd be thrown into a foster home or something."

"So? I just want to be with you, Clara. Away from all of this," she gestured towards the camp. "Don't you want to be with me too?"

"Of course I do, Sonya, but we just need to think this whole thing through."

"So when will you give me an answer?"

"Tomorrow's night, maybe."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die,"

The following day, the camp awoke to a public lashing. Sonya yet again threw herself in front of the whip to protect a boy it punished. The man wielding the whip then turned on Sonya, dealing her painful welts until her back was laden with open wounds. Kostya, who oversaw the lashing per usual, was vexed by this open act of defiance and he stormed up to the pole and released the boy, then grabbed a fistful of Sonya's hair.

"Nothing pisses me off more than a rotten egg who wishes to flee the coup. There is no tolerance for disobedience in this camp. So, to prove a point-" he turned a fierce gaze towards Veroshka who stood petrified, "my daughter will have a bit of live target practice. C'mon, girl!"

Kostya dragged Sonya away from the common area and into the field. He grabbed a rifle from a weapon rack. Veroshka's legs felt like lead as she followed after Father, eyes lowered, unable to look ahead. When they reached the field, Kostya pushed Sonya forward, causing her to stumble onto the ground. "Run for your life, girl," he hissed, shoving the rifle into Veroshka's hands. Veroshka stared down at the weapon for a long time. Her hands slipped around the gun naturally yet her body resisted the urge to bring the barrel up towards her target.

Kostya back-handed Veroshka. "A soldier follows orders, Veroshka. Now shoot her!" Tears welled in her eyes, but she nodded and aimed the barrel at a fearful Sonya who begged for her life.

"Please, Father! I won't do it ever again. It was a mistake!"

Kostya clucked, "Insolent, girl. The first ' _mistake'_ was to bring you here in the first place. Then, you defy my laws and beg for mercy? No respect. No loyalty. You don't even deserve the chance to run for your life," A devilish grin tugged at the corners of his lips, "But… I admit it would be more fun to watch you try. _Run_. Run for you pathetic life!"

Frantically, Sonya scrambled away from the danger of the rifle, making a mad dash through the grassy field towards the cover of the forest.

"Wait for it," Kostya instructed, moving behind Veroshka and placing a hand on her shoulder, "Make her believe that she's almost made it."

Through the scope, Veroshka watched as her companion ran across the field. She planned on shooting her in the back, only to wound her. Later… Later Veroshka would return to the field to help her escape. Maybe they would escape together. Veroshka would leave this life behind to venture into a world she hardly knew just for Sonya. She remembered the previous night, Sonya's warm laughter, her sweet scent, her lips. As Veroshka moved her finger over the trigger, her breathing hitched, moving the aim away from Sonya.

"Stop stalling," Kostya growled, squeezing Veroshka's shoulder. "Take the shot or I'll do it for you."

With a gulp, Veroshka repositioned her sights on Sonya, this time aiming at the back of her head. This was the only way. She refused to let Sonya die at the hands of Father. When she pulled the trigger, a single tear rolled down her cheek as Sonya dropped. She felt Father pat her back as the gun slipped through her hands. Until her eventual escape from Kostya's grasp, that was the last time Veroshka felt anything. Veroshka and Sonya both were only fifteen.

...

"Clara," Hearing her name jarred her. Wide-eyed, Clara whipped around only to be plagued by a headache that she had been fighting. A marvelous scent filled her nostrils. Food scrumptiously spiced lay on the other side of the door. Clara's core tightened and her stomach bellowed viciously. "Food's to the right of the door if yer tired of starvin' yourself,"

Clara rushed to the entrance, gently pressing her ear up to the cool wood surface. Berwald's footsteps slowly faded away and the sound of a door closing told Clara that he had disappeared into his study. The food's powerful scent emanated through the doorway, causing her stomach to call out in agony. Out of frustration, Clara pounded her fist against the wall before sinking to her knees, dropping her face into her hands as she struggled to steady her breathing pattern.

"I can't keep doing this," she whimpered. "Berwald doesn't have any intention of forcing me to make a decision. He won't even come in here until I do. If I make a decision…" Another pang of pain from her throbbing headache caused her to sink lower until she lay face clutched her stomach as it continued to rumble angrily. With each growl, her head pounded harder until she just couldn't take it anymore. "I give up!" Clara cried out.

"Give up what?"

Oh. Berwald never went into his study, did he? Shaking her head, Clara swallowed hard, "You know what."

"Not sure I do. You may have to tell me face-to-face so I know you aren't lying,"

Clara groaned, reaching up to pull the door open. Berwald was squatting in front of the entrance with a tray of food on the floor in front of him. "What are you giving up on?"

"No more games. No more bullshit. You have my word."

Berwald nodded, sliding the tray through the door frame to which Clara seized it. "Eat and rest up. You'll go back to work tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always and forever thanks to LaPetitePapillon! See you next chapter...!

**Author's Note:**

> *Velten is a small town about 40 minutes from Berlin
> 
> Russian translations in the story.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> gamle mand = old man
> 
> Låt oss gå = Let's go
> 
> Knep dig selv = Fuck you
> 
> Hvordan går det går, gamle mand? = How's it going, old man?
> 
> bror = brother
> 
> Any other translations were addressed directly after it being said.
> 
> ...
> 
> Much thanks and love to my editor Daila!
> 
> See you next time...!


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